Five Doctors and the Detective
by The Queen of Fragile Hearts
Summary: In which Sherlock Holmes discovers his humanity after The Fall. Sherlock meets a new occupant of Baker Street, a new doctor at Bart's, and John's fiancee- Mary Morstan. Perhaps, he's also truly met Molly Hooper for the first time. PostTRF with flashbacks. Mainly Sherlolly, JohnMary, OC/OC, and slight Molly/OC. Cover art by the fabulous Helene Gaspard. Rated T for safety
1. Chapter 1: The Tides Change

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's _Sherlock_. Hope you enjoy this :)**

**Note: anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought**

Chapter One: Change

Sherlock Holmes died, one cold and cloudy London day. And on a day no different, he came back to life, three years later, to find that, predictably, the world he left behind had changed. It came as no surprise to him. People grew and changed, an aspect of humanity as a whole that he appeared to lack, thus distancing him from mankind. However, he was surprised to find that his time in the afterlife had indeed left its impressions upon him, and somehow, he was a changed man.

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"What do you need?" she said, not a stutter or stammer to be found in Molly's voice in that quiet, tense moment. Her voice was soft and kind, a reflection of the woman to whom it belonged, and Sherlock found that it stirred a little something in the left side of his chest cavity. Maybe he had a heart, maybe he didn't. But he was absolutely certain, and absolutely sincere when a few minutes previous, Sherlock Holmes told Molly Hooper that she counted. Everyone had overlooked her, the mousy little pathologist who seemed so unimportant, so weak: James Moriarty, her colleagues, the boys at Scotland Yard, and unfortunately, even himself. In the moments before he responded to her simple question, he told himself never to make that mistake again. She completely counted, and entirely mattered, even if he wasn't the person to convince her. He could still try. Thanking whatever deity or force that supposedly presided over the universe for Molly Hooper, he took a deep breath and replied, "You."

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That was the beginning of the temporary end of Sherlock Holmes. At his request, Molly Hooper killed him. _So easily, so efficiently, it almost seemed real. I could honestly be dead right now, for all I could tell,_ he thought while lying drugged, bruised, and bloodied in Molly's backseat as she drove silently to her flat. _Am I dead? That wasn't the plan but I could be. Even if I'm not I might as well be dead, since one and only one person knows I still exist. How queer a feeling that is. Tethered to the world singularly by mousy Molly Hooper. My Molly. My pathologist. At least I'm still real to her._ Thoughts rambled and swam through his drug-addled haze as the streetlights blurred past the car windows, mesmerizing him. "Sherlock." A lovely, silken voice shone like a beacon through the darkness. "Sherlock." It was Molly's. "Sherlock, sweetheart, you're rambling and your voice is going to give out. Please, try to rest. We'll be home soon." He hadn't realized he was speaking aloud. Her voice was more intoxicating than the anesthetics coursing through his blood. _Home soon?_ And he slept.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

She kept her word and brought him home. With as much care as she could, she smuggled him into her building and up the stairs to her small flat. He tried to help her drag his battered body to her couch but his feet found no purchase. He could feel her thin arms shaking as they heaved his torso onto the sofa. Molly stopped for a moment, leaning against the arm to catch her breath before lifting his legs onto the cushions as well.

"I'm so sorry, Molly, so sorry. I hadn't intended to really die, it was an accident. I hope you'll forgive me, Molly. I didn't mean to leave. I wasn't supposed to. Oh, Molly, I've upset John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and you. Molly, please don't be cross with me. I didn't mean to upset you, I really didn't. Don't be cross. I couldn't bear it if you were cross with me. Will you miss me now that I'm dead? I'll miss you." His voice slurred and stumbled, and trailed to a rough whisper. Molly knelt beside him, and pressed her lips to his fevered brow. "Sherlock. You're not really dead, sweetheart. Of course I'm not cross with you. You're not dead, and I'm going to take care of you. You'll be alright. I promise. Now hush. Your poor voice won't take much more." Her hand absently stroked his blood-soaked curls, the other wrapped itself around his own pair, mangled and scraped. "Do you really promise, Molly? That I'm not dead and you're not cross with me and you'll take care of me?" She hushed him gently, smoothed his forehead, and promised, before going to retrieve her first aid kit.

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Molly had no illusions about Sherlock. Fantasies, yes, but no illusions. But as she busied herself with dressing his wounds and scrubbing blood from his battered skin while he rambled about everything and nothing, she couldn't help the warmth that spread through her chest. He could be kind, now and then. It was part of his brutal honesty, she supposed, that Sherlock never said something he didn't mean, and that he never lied with spoken words. She found herself wondering, as he grabbed her hand to say something heartfelt about buttons, if that keen-edged candor was still holding on through his drugged stupor. She wondered if he meant anything that he'd said moments ago, about missing her. Quickly, she pushed her musings to a far corner of her mind, and returned her focus to healing the shattered man before her. She wrapped a long, sturdy cloth around his bruised ribs and secured a brace on his ankle.

What did it matter if he meant those things he said while medicated? He'd already told her, while perfectly conscious, that she counted, and that was worth more than gold to Molly. Moreover, he was here, and contrary to what he currently believed, he was alive. And for a little while, he was hers and only hers.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Once he was cleaned and bandaged, she found the bag he'd stowed there earlier and retrieved a clean pair of his pajamas. She managed to get him out of his shredded and dirtied clothes, and wrangled him into his jammies with no end of giggling on his part. Yet immediately after, he fell fast asleep, to Molly's relief. She tucked a pillow beneath his head and a blanket round his body. Pressing one last kiss to his brow, she left him to sleep off the medication. He needed the rest, she knew, because the coming months would the most difficult of Sherlock Holmes' life.

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He was unaware of the things he'd said to her while drugged, and she gave no hints or suggestions to inform him otherwise. She was just herself, just his Molly. She cared for him gently and kindly for two weeks, until he was well again. One night, she held his hand as he phoned Mycroft and told him what had transpired. She watched his face contort in guilt and frustration and annoyance as Mycroft said things like: he suspected as much and Sherlock really ought to consult him before doing something so dangerous and foolhardy again and that Mummy would be terribly upset when she found out what her youngest had done and what was Mycroft going to do with Sherlock. She sat silently beside him while he let his older brother lecture him before Sherlock calmly told him what needed to be done. When there was finally silence and agreement between the brothers, he squeezed Molly's hand, hung up the phone, and let her go. He sat and stared at his shoes, hands dangling loosely off his knees. "I'm to leave tomorrow night for parts unknown. But I'll return to you, Molly Hooper, if you'll have me." She placed her small hand on his shoulder and leaned to whisper in his ear, "I'll be here, Mr. Holmes. I'll always have you, and you'll always have me," before she departed to her bedroom.

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He tried in vain to rest his anxious mind as he laid on the sofa, legs trailing over the arm. She was fast asleep when he slipped into her bedroom, lowered himself beside her, and pulled her sleeping form against him. He had lied; Mycroft's people would be collecting him in just a few hours and he tried to convince himself that it was better this way. _But for now, I'm with her,_ he thought as he breathed in the sweet perfume of Molly, and he began expanding and editing her room in his mind palace, since it seemed she was there to stay.

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Thus the weeks and months passed. He'd appear in her flat after ages without contact. She'd patch him up, force some food into him and demand that he stay long enough to rest. When she eventually fell asleep, he'd crawl into her bed and lie beside her for an hour or two before disappearing into the night. She never knew about him sharing her bed, but the memory of her warmth always kept him going long enough to make it back to her.

oOoOoOoO

In the months between his visits, Molly prayed he'd be able to accomplish his impossible task unscathed. She threw herself relentlessly into her work, turning down dates and outings with her friends to pick up extra shifts. She became quite an actress in those days, faking crying jags and fits of grief. She watched over John, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg Lestrade, having many silent teas and coffees with various singles or combinations of the three. Molly always had real tears for John, however. She never needed to fake them whenever he'd drift off in the middle of their lunches, those kind blue eyes staring blankly into space. A touch of her hand would bring him back and he'd apologize through repressed sobs.

None of them deserved this. None of them. She felt like such a traitor at times, knowing he was alive while watching his only friends suffer. But for their sake, and for his, Molly Hooper assumed a brave face and soldiered on.

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'Change' was the word Sherlock pondered as he sat in his chair at Baker Street for the first time in three years. Mrs. Hudson would wander by periodically to pat his cheek, alternating between cooing her thanks that he was alive and shouting mercilessly at him for frightening her half to the grave and nearly killing poor John with grief, but bless him, dear boy. He steepled his hands beneath his chin slowly, turning 'change' over and over in his mind.

The change in John. Molly had told him that his limp had returned during Sherlock's absence, but subsided when John met Mary Morstan, an OBGYN at Bart's. She was a good friend of Molly's, and the two had been introduced by her one day in the morgue. Mary Morstan was the source of the change in John. Evidently, he dated her for a year and eight months before proposing to her, at which point his limp disappeared once more. They were to be married in a month and a half. The possessive, selfish nature of Sherlock was frustrated that perhaps his absence and Miss Morstan's influence would rob him of his best friend, but reason won out. The day Sherlock officially came back and after John had punched him soundly, twice, the army doctor hauled him off the floor and into a tight hug. "You arrogant, brilliant, stupid, selfless man. Don't think I'm just going to forgive you right away for what you did. And do that again and I'll... Whatever. I missed you." Of course Mary wouldn't take John away from him. Honestly, she probably saved Dr. Watson's life and Sherlock should be grateful to her, which he decided that he was. At the same moment, he decided that she was so well suited to John that he couldn't find anything truly irritating or amiss in Mary Morstan. So the change in John was easily accepted by Sherlock. He was about to shout at John to demand tea when he remembered that the doctor was now sharing a nice little house with his fiancee, 7 blocks away from Baker Street. That change was certainly going to take a bit more getting-used-to.

The change in Mrs. Hudson. She had met an acceptable fellow 2 years ago, of which Molly informed him immediately. He was a postman, and a rescue volunteer. He collected stamps and gardened on the side. Upon his return, Sherlock insisted on meeting the man, and was pleasantly surprised to discover nothing unseemly about him, except for an overbearing cheeriness that Sherlock disliked and Mrs. Hudson adored. He supposed there was room for this Mr. Philby in Mrs. Hudson's life, and subsequently his, so there was that change sorted.

_Change, change, change._

The change in Lestrade and the boys at Scotland Yard. As Sherlock had predicted to himself ages ago, Anderson's wife found out about Sgt. Donavan and threw him out. They were divorced and Anderson all too quickly shacked up with Sally. The had a row over his ex-wife and she also tossed him. Sherlock snorted in disgust. Insipid creatures, really. This change made very little difference to him. He stored it away in his mind palace only to have another sore spot to expose in the two whenever they became particularly annoying (which was always.)

Lestrade had once again reconciled with his wife and she had delivered another child last year. Sherlock grimaced. She was still unfaithful to him, every few months or so with different man, but for reasons that escaped Sherlock in his limited knowledge of the subject, Lestrade still loved her and wanted to make it work, so he didn't confront her about it. In the short two days that he'd been back in the world, Sherlock had seen the Detective Inspector three times, each of which he noticed that Lestrade had been drinking the night before, heavily and alone. He sensed the potential for an alcohol addiction in the DI, and made a note to tell John about it. His poor friend.

Sherlock turned that word over and over in his head. _Friend_. He had friends. That was why he died, wasn't it? For John, for Mrs. Hudson, for Lestrade, and, he was startled to admit, for Molly, if she had been one of Moriarty's targets. Was she his friend? He decided that she was, because she counted and he... cared for her, he supposed, but in a different way from his other friends. He found that he almost dreaded the next steps his mind was going to take.

Because finally, Sherlock came to the change in his pathologist. She had certainly undergone a metamorphosis, and he suspected she had something to do with the change in himself that he poked and prodded at relentlessly. Slowly, he began dissecting the matter.

Contrary to what so many believed, Molly hadn't fallen in love with him the very first time they met. She was fascinated, and dazzled by his brilliant mind, but she did not love him that very first day. In time, Molly developed a crush on him, which she tried unsuccessfully to hide. He had found it annoying, yet useful, and it did not change his opinion of the young pathologist. He supposed that somehow her crush became an experiment to him. He was so curious as to what attracted her to him besides his intellect. _"Brainy is the new sexy,"_ Irene's words echoed through his mind at this point. Obviously his mind was one of the reasons she liked him, but why should that be enough for her to endure his ceaseless verbal abuse? He freely admitted that he'd been quite beastly to her, that his drive to understand her feelings also pushed him to find her breaking point.

He thought he did, at that dreadful Christmas party, then found that he instantly regretted it. His words that night haunted him through the entire Adler case and for several weeks afterward, and he found himself playing his violin incessantly, even composing a melody to his thoughts of Molly. But, as he was oddly relieved to discover, he had not broken her, and he resolved to consider her emotions more carefully and watch the harshness of his words.

Sherlock remembered exactly the day he discovered that she loved him. He was in the mortuary lab, examining cultures and whatnot since he had finished his last case two days ago and was already bored. Molly had brought him a coffee before going to work on the mountain of paperwork on her desk. She was very diligent, his pathologist. She was the only doctor in the morgue who bothered with the paperwork, and as he had told her before, she really was the only competent examiner at Bart's. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her pinch the bridge of her nose, eyes tightly shut. She sighed and ran her slender hands through her hair. "Something the matter, Molly?" he asked. She blinked at him, before offering a weary smile. "Just tired, Sherlock. How'd your last case go?" He snorted. "Child's play. The fools at the Yard were absolutely oblivious. It was the gardener, for heaven's sake. All they had to do was look at the kitchen door frame!" She chuckled while straightening her desktop and gathering her things. "Of course. How foolish of them," she said with a smile. "I'm going home, Sherlock. I've been here for 12 hours and I know it's against hospital policy, but will you lock up when you're done?" She yawned while extending the keys, which he accepted with a nod. "I'll probably see you tomorrow anyway and I've got a spare set. I'm glad you caught him," she said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder before advancing to the door, "You're a good man, Sherlock Holmes." That was the moment. That was the moment he realized that she loved him. He could feel that her skin was heated, could feel her pulse thrumming steadily even through her palm, could see that her irises had darkened and her pupils dilated, could hear the tenderness in her voice. Chemistry. "Molly, actually, I'll see you to your car. I was just finished anyway."

That was the day. But it wasn't until this moment he had the time to think about why he was so sure it was that day. Obviously the chemical evidence confirmed it, but there were other things. She hadn't stuttered or stammered or blushed in his presence once. She even made a joke, confidently and clearly. She touched him with hands that did not shake, and trusted him to lock the lab. Finally, her simple statement: _You're a good man, Sherlock Holmes. _She believed in him. That's what it was. Molly knew well enough that he solved cases for the sake of easing his endless boredom, but she saw all the people he helped, the criminals he put away, and to her that added up to a good man, regardless of what his own intentions were. What was it that Lestrade had said, a time or two?_ "Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day, if we are very lucky, he might even be a good one_." Molly Hooper thought he was good. And strangely enough, that made him want to be.

Her change hadn't stopped that day. In the weeks he spent in her flat after the Fall, he began to see a Molly Hooper he had never taken the time to observe before then. She became his friend, somehow without his notice. But that's how Molly did things, wasn't it? Quietly, wholeheartedly, selflessly, unreservedly, and unexpecting of anything in return. She became something else, though. Something on which Sherlock could not put his finger. Further data was necessary, and he intended to collect it. He was certain though, that he was grateful for the change in Molly. Grateful that he had gained another friend, though he claimed he didn't require human interaction, didn't have feelings. And lastly, grateful for Molly Hooper herself.

oOooOo

**Author's Note: Hello, individual who just read my little piece here! I'd like you to know that I intend to extend this, that it is not just a one-shot as I hope the title implies, since I only mentioned three doctors in this chappy ;) So! Promise I'll get around to it but in the meantime, let me know what you think!**

**Much love and thanks,  
-The Queen of Fragile Hearts**


	2. Chapter 2: A Sonata and a Scream

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. For this chapter, I'm borrowing the script from the end of the Series 2 finale, "The Reichenbach Fall". I do not own any part of the BBC's ****_Sherlock_****. Hope you enjoy this :)**

**Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream.**

**Shoutouts: Abundant thanks to my first followers: crooney83, ladylillianrose, hildal, SammyKatz, and iamthedaisyqueen. I hope you guys enjoy and stick with me since this is my first fic on this site, and the first I've written in over three years. Also, applause and cheering for SammyKatz and iamthedaisyqueen for reviewing! Your feedback gives me wings!**

**Summary: In which Sherlock has a nightmare, discovers that Mrs. Hudson is also the landlady for 220 Baker Street next door, and learns that he has a neighbor.**

**Please enjoy! Let me know what you think :)**

Chapter Two: A Sonata and a Scream

_His hands trembled, ever so slightly. 'How odd,' he remembered thinking as the tips of his dress shoes brushed past the edge of the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Sherlock Holmes rarely displayed exterior signs of internal distress, yet somehow, in this moment he couldn't find the slightest urge to care._

_He was frightened. Not for himself, of course. Never for himself. He bore no enmity for death, being a logical creature. He was mortal, and therefore subject to the fatal lottery that unfortunate people won daily. 'And Molly will not fail,' he thought, 'She's too good at her job for failure.' No, he was not afraid for himself. Even so, the cold hand of fear slid up his spine and wrapped itself round his neck. He was frightened of the ramifications of this stunt. He was frightened that Moriarty's men would kill his friends anyway, that the rules of the game would just fall away with the kingpin gone. He was frightened to see John's face as he fell. But there was no turning back. No other way. 'Steady on, Sherlock Holmes'._

_With a shaking hand, he drew his mobile out of his coat pocket, dialling the number quickly as a taxi pulled to the curb opposite Bart's. Sherlock watched as John rushed out of the cab, answering his phone as he crossed the street._

_"Hello?"_

_"John?"_

_John was running now, his voice tinged with worry. "Hey, Sherlock, you okay?" He was nearly across the street. 'That won't do. He has to see it. He has to watch me die,' Sherlock said quietly to himself as that frigid, spindly hand closed inexorably tighter about his throat. "Turn around, and walk back the way you came."_

_"No, I'm coming in!"_

_"Just do as I ask."_

_The force of his words, the tremor that had slipped by unchecked, caused John to turn on his heel. "Where?"_

_"Stop there."_

_"Sherlock?"_

_The drive behind his voice as he begged John to obey him was gone now, leaving his soft baritone flat and lifeless. "Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."_

_"Oh, God."_

_"I-I...I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this." 'A stutter? Certainly a day for firsts.' The first time Sherlock's hands betrayed his head, the first time his voice failed him, and the first time he would die._

_"What's going on?" John sounded breathless. His face, upturned towards the roof, looked concerned, worried._

_"An apology." He nearly had to force himself to say the next words. "It's all true."_

_"What?"_

_The words came more smoothly now, as the natural actor in Sherlock took over. Another first: he had outright lied with his own lips, his own words to the first man he ever called his friend. "Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty," he said, turning to look at the corpse on floor behind him. His face was still mocking, even in death. 'Or an elaborate facsimile of it. This seems far too simple, too neat to be the end of James Moriarty," he reminded himself to investigate the suicide once he was recovered._

_There was such a look of disbelief on John's face as he stared at Sherlock. Shaking his head slightly, as if to confirm he'd heard correctly, he said, "Why are you saying this?"_

_Real tears threatened to overcome Sherlock as he replied, "I'm a fake." 'Tears, Holmes? At least you know you're capable of them, of... feelings.' He suddenly felt as though he'd been shot through the left side of his chest. It ached and throbbed and the sensation left him gasping. 'So that's what a heart must feel like.'_

_"Sherlock."_

_"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty for my own purposes." The tremors were back as Sherlock Holmes denounced himself._

_John's face now showed frustration and annoyance. And fear. Sherlock could see that there was now an inkling of terror on the army doctor's face. "Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, huh?"_

_"Nobody could be that clever," he returned, a hint of a smile on his face. 'Starting to lie to yourself now?'_

_"You could."_

_Sherlock laughed as he grappled with the honesty, the belief in John's voice, and he searched for the next lines in his script. "I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you." A half lie. Sherlock had wanted to impress him. Though he'd never admit it to anyone and even had a rough time admitting it to himself, he had desperately wanted John to like him that very first day. Perhaps he could sense in John something he himself lacked: the capacity to trust someone completely and unreservedly. "It's a trick. it's just a magic trick"_

_"No. Stop it now!"_

_"No, stay exactly where you are! Don't move!" The actor returned, the tremor gone. It was time._

_John's hand flew up to placate him. "All right."_

_Yet, somehow, Sherlock's feelings won and his voice was heavy with choked tears as he said, "Keep your eyes fixed on me."_

_"Do what?"_

_"This phone call, it's, uh... It's my note. It's what people do, don't they?" Subdued, numbed, Sherlock continued. "Leave a note?"_

_Now there were tears in John's voice. "Leave a note when?"_

_"Goodbye, John."_

_"No. Don't."_

_With one last, long look at his friend's kind face, Sherlock ended the call and tossed the phone behind him. It shattered with a sort of ironic finality that a different Sherlock might have admired. John was shouting now, shouting his name. "Sherlock!"_

_'What a sensation, standing here, grounded by only the heels of my shoes. I feel as though this is really the end.' His feet ghosted over air as he edged forward. 'I've always wondered what it would be like to fly.'_

_He spread his arms, and then he fell, limbs searching for purchase as the ground reached up to claim him. And there was silence. He laid still, waiting for the drugs to kick in, waiting for the crowd of people that would undoubtedly swarm his corpse, waiting for Molly to save him. And there was silence._

_As his eyes drifted shut, the sound of a piano flickered through the hush, through the still. It was familiar, soothing. Ludwig von Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" swirled around his head and filled his senses with a foreign sense of yearning. He was drowning in it, drowning in the lovely song as it lulled him into his drugged sleep._

_"SHERLOCK!"_

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

His eyes flew open. He was on his couch at Baker Street, alive and well. His slender fingers sought his pulse on his neck. It raced. _A nightmare_? His breath slowed as his eyes took in his surroundings. _How peculiar. I don't have nightmares. I don't sleep enough to dream at all, usually._ He came to the thought, however, that this wasn't the first time he had this nightmare. _This memory, really._ It came to him first two days after the Fall, just before he emerged from his drug-induced slumber. Molly had been there to sooth him, remind him that he was alive. He vaguely recalled having it another time or two, while traveling, but he must not have catalogued the experiences because... because there was no Molly to dulcify his tattered thoughts. No Molly to lift his broken body from the pavement, to bring him back to life and heal him.

It was always the same. Always ended with Sherlock being jarred from sleep by the sound of John's horrified, furious, anguished voice. But... _What was different this time? Something was different._ Then it hit him. _The sonata. Why should that have permeated the reliving of my death?_

He realized, suddenly, that he could still hear it. The haunting melody echoed faintly through 221B. Someone next door was playing the "Moonlight Sonata" on an upright Steinway Boston grand, at least 30 years old but recently tuned. Apparently, Sherlock had a neighbor.

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"Mrs. Hudson!" He bellowed as he stomped down the stairs.

"Sherlock, cut your shouting, you silly boy! What is it?" She hurried out of her flat, smoothing her favorite purple dress.

"Someone is playing the piano next door. Who is the landlord or lady of 220 Baker Street? I'll need to speak with him or her immediately and find out who's playing," he demanded.

"Why, you're looking at her! Is the piano bothering you? I thought it was quite nice when I was up earlier, cleaning out your fridge again. Toes, Sherlock? I thought the thumbs were bad enough. But again, I'm not your housekeeper, dear."

"Mrs. Hudson. The piano?" he said patiently.

"Oh, all right. Does it really bother you? A little hypocritical, young man, considering you saw away at that poor violin for hours on end. Anyway, it must be my new tenant. Don't you go chasing her off! She's a nice young lady, very polite and personable. And interesting! I like her very much and if she tells me you've been terrorizing her, Sherlock Holmes, so help me, I will phone your brother!"

"Calm down, Mrs. Hudson, I was just curious. No need to hassle Mycroft," he said, retreating up the stairs to 221B.

"Be nice!" she shouted after him.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Not an hour later, he found himself standing outside of 220B. The sonata still ebbed and flowed, swelling with more emotion each time she played it. _Curious that she plays the same song over and over again._

He raised a gloved hand, and knocked.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

**Author's Note: So? You are thinking what? Good, no good? Let me know. I hope you all enjoy my little piece here! Thanks for reading. A million blessings upon your head :)**

**Much love and thanks,  
-The Queen of Fragile Hearts**


	3. Chapter 3: Windows to the Soul

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's ****_Sherlock_****, much as I wish I did :)**

**Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream.**

**Shout-outs: Thank you, my beloved followers, for your support! Also, thanks to my new followers: Roses Near Rivers, blackphoenix23, Anatomydoc, Shaida01, and spidergirl502. I hope you all like my little tale here well enough to stick with me :) Finally, blessings to my dear, previously mentioned (wink) reviewers, and my newest, Anatomydoc! Your feedback makes my heart sing :)**

**Summary: In which Sherlock meets the pianist, and perhaps makes a friend.**

**Hope you like it and here we go!**

Chapter Three: Windows to the Soul

Sherlock Holmes had risen from the grave one month ago, and returned to the world. But he hadn't returned to his pathologist. Molly Hooper sighed as she elbowed her laboratory door open, juggling an armful of finished paperwork. _Why did I bother to wear heels today?_ she thought as she finally wobbled through the door towards her desk, relieving herself of the stack of folders and her purse.

His absence had been well-noted by Molly. He had ceased coming to the morgue in his free time, and she knew that he'd been on cases because John's blog had resumed with enthusiasm. He never stopped by her flat, though why should he now that the world had welcomed him back? She hadn't even gotten a text from the detective since his return.

_What should it matter to me? Remember, Molly girl, no illusions, right? He's still my friend, though he shows it in odd ways. He's seen enough of me, like as not, considering I was the only familiar face he saw for three years. I'm sure he'll be in some time or another. There has to be a reason. Steady on._

She turned on her computers and straightened microscopes and found some other mundane things to occupy herself before her shift officially started. Out of things to do, she wandered back to her desk, anxiously soothing her hair. She fussed with her desktop, trying desperately not to think about Sherlock Holmes.

_He doesn't need you now. You don't count anymore._

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His knock was met with no response. The music reached its end and the piano was silent for a few moments before she started again. Sherlock's hand closed around the doorknob, and turned. _Unlocked. Careless of her._ He silently pushed the door open and peered in.

His eyes began searching her flat, unconsciously gleaning whatever he could about its occupant. Bookshelves lined every available wall, from floor to ceiling. The books were arranged by height, tallest to shortest from left to right, and lovingly dusted regularly. Her living room floor was carpeted in a plush green. Hair from one... two cats could been seen in spots her vacuum had missed. _Lives alone with cats, single, no family in London, returned a week ago from an extended trip._ A large couch was situated in front of her picture windows, flanked by cream colored silk drapes, and two overstuffed armchairs rested on either side of the sofa. Her coffee table and side tables were covered in stacks of books, papers, and archaeological artifacts. _An archaeologist, _he noted, before categorizing her scientific journals and artifacts, _An Egyptologist, in fact._ He followed the sonata towards a doorway that led to a small study.

Leaning in the doorframe, he observed the piano he had correctly identifed not an hour earlier, the keys facing towards him and the pianist towards the street. He watched as she swayed with each note, slender fingers flying over the ivory. Not wanting to disturb her until the song was over, Sherlock silently contemplated the color of her hair. It was very odd, a color he couldn't say he'd seen before. Primarily, it was a soft, pale brown with hints of a deep chocolate. _Somewhere between Molly's hair and John's_, came the unbidden thought at the sight of it. The sun had painted it with glimmering streaks of gold, and if he looked closely, copper and bronze. Her hair was parted to the side and fell past her lower back to pool on the piano bench. He noted that she took exceptional care of it. _Washed once, sometimes twice a day, no split ends, trimmed regularly, brushed many times a day._ However, after taking in her clothing- _a pair of close-cropped jeans and a grey jumper, at least four years old, sprinkled with cat hair, mended twice on the right shoulder and on the hem_- it appeared to be her one concession to frivolous beauty.

Her hands were deft and clever, the hands of someone used to delicate but arduous work. They bore the grace of a musician, all broad-palmed and tapered fingers. She took great care in applying lotion, likely to sooth sand burns. Her nails were unpainted and bitten to the beds. Presumably for appearance's sake, she filed the stumps to short, rounded symmetry and trimmed the cuticles. A bandaid was secured around her right ring finger, near the tip, padding focused to the bottom of the nail bed. _It's an unconscious habit, pursued until she tastes blood,_ he speculated, _Probably done most often while reading, writing, watching telly._ She wore an oversized, antique men's watch on her right wrist; a fine, intricate silver band on her left middle finger; and a pair of small, sensible studs in her ears. _Sentiment attached to the ring and watch, earrings worn only to prevent the holes closing since jewelry is impractical in her profession yet occasions sometimes arise with the need for it._

The music decrescendoed to its end, and he cleared his throat. She swiveled quickly on the bench, hair flying until it settled in a frame around her face. "May I h-help you?" she said in a pleasant voice. It was relatively low for a female yet still silken and feminine. _A floating soprano-alto, sings often when alone and only for others by request._

"You really ought to lock your door. Anyone could just walk in here," Sherlock said, remaining motionless in the doorway to avoid scaring her further.

She smiled wryly. "Most people knock."

"I did. You didn't answer but I knew you were here. I could hear the music from next door."

Confusion flitted across her face. "I didn't notice a knock. I suppose I was a little lost in the music." She shook her head a little, as though to bring herself back from wherever she'd gone, and smiled at him while pushing up the sleeves of her jumper.

"About that- why do you play the same piece over and over again?" he asked.

"Sometimes I don't even notice I'm doing that. The piano helps me think, and I suppose the repetition eases me into a thought pattern, helps me organize. This song in particular, however, is my favorite to play when I'm feeling adrift."

As she spoke, he studied her face. It was expressive, intelligent, and guileless, and though he was certain he'd never seen this woman before, there was such a familiarity to her that bothered Sherlock. He found himself paying more attention to mapping her features than he usually did when meeting strangers. 32_ years old, oily skin that retains elasticity very well, shows little to no signs of aging, resistant to freckling, naturally a light tan that darkens easily without excessive burning._ Her eyebrows were slim and delicately arched. She had a petite button nose that seemed incongruous with her prominent yet soft cheekbones, but complemented her small, rosy lips. He followed the defined curves of her jaw to her tiny, labyrinthine ears that held back long bangs that brushed her neck when she turned her head. Suddenly, he discovered why she seemed so familiar to him. The very way she held herself- spine and neck straight, shoulders back, chest out, chin slightly inclined, hands clasped in her lap and eyes trained on him- reminded him of John. _Ah, a military backround- family, spouse, or self._

When she mentioned feeling adrift, his eyes quickly focused on hers, sensing she was about to finish speaking. Yet when he really looked at them, that familiar feeling he thought he'd pinpointed with her carriage returned in full force. This time he knew instantaneously. _They're so like Molly's. But why_? They didn't appear similar at all. Molly's eyes were more almond shaped and this woman's were rounded. Molly's eyes were a rich chocolate brown, and he could not find a word for the color of the pianist's. Her pupils were circumscribed by a sort of golden fringe that faded out into the soft forest green of her iris, swirled with the barest hints of gray and blue and speckled with brown. No, her eyes looked nothing like Molly's. _But they're so like hers._ A moment more of analyzing and he knew. _Sentiment_. The pianist's eyes were full of the trust and caring one developed for others through the evolution of a giving personality. _There she is. My pathologist. Looking at me through a stranger's eyes. How peculiar._

People tended to avoid direct eye contact as much as possible. The eyes really are the windows of the soul, thus Sherlock spent plenty of time searching the eyes of others. They betrayed everything: emotions, personalities, secrets, lies, motives. He had closed many a case with simply a glance into a person's eyes. Yet he never looked longer than he needed, to avoid such personal communication with people about whom he did not care. But in this woman's eyes he could see her whole life story, and strangely, the intimacy of it all did not frighten him.

She opened her mouth, face poised in the expression of a question when he said, "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. You might have heard of me, though I'm nearly positive you haven't. I didn't mean to interrupt your playing, but you startled me from a dream and I was curious."

Her mouth fell shut again as she blinked at him. "Your name?" he said softly.

"Dr. Eloise Johnson, Egyptologist. How do you know I haven't heard of you?"

"You've been out of the country for the better part of... four years with only sporadic visits home: three in Egypt and one in... Morocco. There was no spark of recognition in your eyes at the sight of me, and there would have been if you'd been living in London consistently."

She blinked again. "How-"

"I knew you were an Egyptologist before we spoke. Your artifacts, journals, and hands betray you. As to the duration of your absence, I noted that you've only been home a week based the areas that you frequent the most around this flat- the piano bench, the chair to the left of the door. They're well kept in a particular order while the rest of the flat has been cleaned according to a different method... twice a week, which would be too long between cleanings for one of your personality. Whoever cleans your flat while you're away is less meticulous, judging by the cat hair the vacuum missed. No living plants, though you have window boxes and flower pots- too difficult to maintain a home garden over an extended absence. Your two cats are currently snubbing you as revenge for their "abandonment," though the woman who cleans also fed them consistently and often sat in the chair to the right of the door to pet them while she worked up here. Mrs. Hudson described you as her "new" tenant but you've obviously lived in this flat for quite sometime, therefore she doesn't see or talk to you often. Also, I have rented the flat next door to yours for five years and have yet to hear you play the piano, meaning that your visits home are long enough only to rest and repack. Finally, your skin and clothing. Your clothes are at least four years old but cared for and mended regularly. The tone of your skin has been sustained for at least that amount if not longer. Your scalp is lighter than your face but still tanned, implying that your head was covered often enough, likely by a hijab when necessary. Your hands are almost imperceptibly darker than your arms, suggesting that on harsher days in the sun and sand you wear long sleeves. No tan lines beneath the watch and ring, of course. Items of sentiment that you wouldn't endanger on a dig. To conclude, the tarnish on the silver hasn't been adressed in..." he finished, waiting for her to answer.

"Four years. How marvelous," the archaologist said quietly, studying her hands intently. She looked up at him, a slight smile curving at the corner of her lips. "But you've got something wrong."

"There's always something, a little nuance or detail. Tell me?"

"Another year, in Tunisia. You're right on all other accounts, though. The longest I've been home at any point was two days. And it's good to be home," she said with what appeared to be a bittersweet smile.

"I'd have to agree that it is. I've been dead for three years," he replied with a wry grin.

"That long, huh?" She laughed while leaving her piano bench and brushing past him to continue into the kitchen. "Come have a cuppa, Mr. Holmes, and tell me all about the afterlife."

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**Author's Note: So there you go! I know this chapter was just kind of fluffy (Sherlock's going to make yet another friend! If he's not careful, people will begin to think he's human.) but I really wanted to introduce my favorite OC from this story with a Sherlock deduction. How did I do, by the way? I can always use feedback on Sherlock since he's a difficult character to capture accurately while allowing for development in one's particular story. Feel free to let me know :) Thanks for reading! **

**Also, to whom it may concern: this IS a Sherlolly fic, and my OC is just going to be his friend. I imagined her as a sort of bridge between him and Molly. I just don't believe he'd be able to sort his feelings for Molly without the help of a young woman similar to her. I would never hurt my dear Molly without some sort of overly happy ending :)**

**Much love and thanks,**

**-The Queen of Fragile Hearts**


	4. Chapter 4: Raindrops on Roses

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's ****_Sherlock_****, much as I wish I did :)**

**Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream or a memory.**

**Shout-outs: I cannot thank my fantastic followers enough! A warm welcome to my new readers: englishtutor, drey'auc475, kit9802, rachelizabeth18, and Renaissancebooklover108! Your support makes me feel fuzzy :) Also, many, many hugs and kisses to my sweet reviewers: SammyKatz, iamthedaisyqueen, Anatomydoc, crooney83, Renaissancebooklover108, and a very sweet review from a Guest that just tickled me pink! Your feedback makes my heart soar :) Love and gush and cuddles to all!**

**Summary: In which Sherlock has tea with the Egyptologist, John has a bit of trouble in paradise, and Molly makes a decision without full approval from her heart.**

**Please enjoy!**

oOoOoOoOoO

Chapter Four: Raindrops on Roses

_'Unhinged.' That was the word that came to Sherlock's mind as he leveled his gun at James Moriarty's chest. Three years spent dismantling a web of criminal activity culminated in this: tearing down the spider's silk and poising a shoe overhead to crush it. 'The man is unhinged. I suppose that would be me if it weren't for...'_

_His hand did not shake as it had the day they met at that swimming pool. It was deadly still, unwavering in the ice cold anger that flowed through Sherlock's veins. ''I'm not taking you to the police," he said, deep baritone echoing through the empty warehouse, "so if you've anything to say, say it now."_

_A theatrical sneer commanded the criminal's face as he returned, "All grown up now, Holmes the Younger? Tired of our little game? Pity. I was having such fun toying with those friends of yours. I hadn't even begun to touch the little pathologist. Of course, then I hadn't realized she actually mattered to you-"_

_He was cut off abruptly by a warning shot that struck his right shoulder. As a deep crimson stain bloomed from the wound, so did hysterical laughter from Moriarty's lips. "Struck a nerve, did I? Ooh, you DO care about her. Had her yet? Oh, don't bother, I know the answer anyway. Shame, that. She's really very sweet when you get her going. Those clever hands of hers-"_

_He sunk to his knees as blood began to pour from the left side of his chest. Moriarty's eyes locked onto his own, lips still curved in that deranged grin as he laughed and laughed until nothing issued from his throat but blood and he fell to the warehouse floor._

_The demented giggling still echoed through the empty structure as Sherlock's hands began to shake. He turned away from the body of his conquered nemesis and began to walk. The boot had fallen, the spider smashed._

_Sherlock's ears still rang with laughter as he began running, running into the night, desperate to escape it._

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes?" The Egyptologist's voice snatched him back to her sitting room. He looked around, blinking at her and at the steaming cup of Earl Grey in his hands. "We were discussing Cambridge, and you just sort of... drifted away. Where did you go?"

She reminded him so viscerally of Molly. He supposed that was what had triggered the memory. Tucked neatly into her armchair with a cat on her lap, those oceanic eyes shining with concern and wonder. He placed his cup on the side table and steepled his hands beneath his chin. "I was... You remind me very much of someone I know, that's all. And please, it's Sherlock. Mr. Holmes is my brother."

She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. "How do I remind you of this someone? A woman, I gather?"

His jaw twitched ever so slightly. He'd never been so predictable before. "Yes, a woman. The woman who killed me. I mentioned her earlier."

"Ah, the pathologist. Do I look like her, or something like that?"

He glanced at her before retrieving his tea. "Not in the least. But you care, just like she does."

She threw back her head and laughed. "And you're not used to... being cared about?"

"I'm not so... personable... as I may seem, Ms. Johnson. In fact, most would die choking on their own laughter before ever believing me to be civil to someone."

"Eloise. And you're really that much of a git?" she said, voice brimming with mirth. "What does the pathologist think?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. She loves me, or did, last I saw her. But time sort of slipped through my fingers. I've been alive again for... a month now and I haven't gone to see her," he murmured quietly as he stared into his tea. _I've known this woman for all of an hour and I'm telling her all these things._

"Do you know why you haven't?" Eloise said as she turned to face the window. The skies had opened, and a heavy rain began to caress the London cityscape.

He met her eyes again. "I haven't ceased thinking about her. And I've been trying to figure out why that is."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John sat frozen on the park bench, unmoving in spite of the pouring rain that drenched his clothes. _Damn Sherlock Holmes._ Not ten minutes ago, John had his first row with his fiancee. And what was it over? _Sherlock bloody Holmes_.

The wedding was in two weeks, and John had finally found the way to pose a question to Mary with which he was certain she'd have an issue. John had become good friends with Greg Lestrade over the past three years, so much so that John had asked him to be his best man. And now Sherlock was back. His best friend was back from the dead and John couldn't imagine getting married without Sherlock standing up there with him. Of course he'd still want Greg to be a groomsman. But Mary would have none of it.

_"Absolutely not, John Watson, and I'll tell you why. We've planned this already. You asked Greg seven months ago and I'll not have you taking back your word. Also, you think Sherlock is going to be able to behave for the entire 45-minute service, standing up there in front of all our friends, colleagues, and family? He'll get bored, John. You know he will. Finally, Molly is my maid of honor. He hasn't been to see her since he's been back and I doubt he will before the wedding. I don't want the first time she sees the man again to be as he bloody walks her down the aisle! I won't do that to her, John. I don't mind if he's a just groomsman, really I don't. But don't do this to Greg and Molly. Not on our wedding day."_

He ran a hand through his dripping hair, pushing loose strands off his forehead. _When did this become the biggest of my problems?_ He sighed. He was just going to have to get Sherlock to go visit Molly. _The git loves her and he won't even go see her. Of course, he probably hasn't even come to that conclusion yet. For a man with such a remarkable mind, he can be painfully dense sometimes._

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Molly stuck her pen behind her ear as she turned towards the rain-streaked window, listening to the comforting drumbeat of the steady shower. It had been a slow day, and though she was always glad to have one, there hadn't been much to distract her from her thoughts. She finished all her paperwork, and the paperwork her colleagues had carelessly left behind. She'd made herself way too much tea, absentmindedly, and was now drinking what was left of it since she hated waste. _I should just text him. All this waiting and holding my breath is going to drive me insane._

She turned back to her desk to pick up her mobile when it buzzed. "One new text message," her screen read. Her heart beat a little faster as she clicked on it.

"Hi, Dr. Hooper?" _Not Sherlock,_ she thought, _He hasn't called me 'Doctor Hooper' in ages._

"Yes, this is she. May I ask who this is?"

"Sorry! I'm Dr. Michael Prescott. I'm new here, down in Neurology. I started last week."

"Welcome to Bart's! How did you get my number?"

"Your friend, a Dr. Morstan? I was too shy to ask you."

Molly stared at her phone in disbelief. _Someone was too shy to ask ME for my number?_

"Have I caught you on a break? I was hoping I could come up and really meet you, face to face."

"Um, sure. I'm in the morgue's laboratory."

"Great! See you in a few."

_What in the name of sanity is going on? Note to self, interrogate Mary later_. She fussed with her hair as she settled back down at her desk. She had just remembered that she was going to text Sherlock when the door quietly swung open. Molly looked up as a tall figure stepped into her lab. "Hello, Dr. Hooper," he said with what she could only describe as a sheepish smile.

She stood up and waved her hand, trying to coax him away from the doorframe. "Please, call me Molly. Would you like some coffee or something, Dr. Prescott?"

He slowly made his way into her morgue, and settled at a lab stool by Sherlock's favorite microscope. "I suppose, then, if you'd like, you could call me Michael?" He said, smiling at her. _He has such a kind face._

"Very well, Michael. How would you like your coffee?" she replied, walking towards the break room.

"Uh, black, two sugars, please," came his cheerful reply that nearly knocked her off her silly heels. She stumbled, grabbing the door frame for support.

"Molly? Are you all right?" he said, concerned. She raised a placating hand in his direction. "I'm fine, just... tripped a little, is all. I'll be back in half a mo." She had to keep herself from running into the break room. After she set the kettle, she gripped the counter, gasping and trying to reign in her racing thoughts.

_Other people take their coffee black with two sugars, Molly Hooper. You need to calm down. There's no need to get all bent out of shape because of the way he takes his coffee!_ She straightened up, smoothing her hair and lab coat before returning to the lab with two cups of hot coffee.

"Here you are," she said with a smile, "Black with two sugars."

He accepted it gratefully. "Thank you, Dr. Hooper. Err, Molly."

"Now, why don't you tell me why you were too shy to ask me for my number?"

He set his coffee down on the lab table and turned to face her with a lovely little half-smile. "This is a little embarrasing. I, um, I'm a big fan of yours. I've read all your works and they're just amazing. And when I found out you worked here, I really wanted to... to ask you out for lunch," he finished with another one of those sheepish grins.

Molly hesitated. She had turned down date after date for three nerve-wracking years because she'd thought... _No. No thinking. Molly, it's time you gave yourself a chance. Stop waiting around for someone who's not coming back._

"Lunch sounds nice. I'm off at 11:30, so I'll just meet you out front, yeah?"

_Stop thinking. Just stop._

oOoOoOoOoOo

"So what I'm hearing is, this woman loves you, saved your life and has harbored you when necessary for three years, and you're currently ignoring her because you're trying to decide why you can't stop thinking about her."

"You make me sound so... petty," he said with a frown.

Eloise's only reply was a very pointed look.

"I wouldn't call it... ignoring, per se. And I hadn't realized it had been so long. I just hadn't wanted to see her until I was sure of myself." He shifted uncomfortably in the overstuffed armchair. "This is another one of those areas in which I seem to have given you the wrong impression. I'm terrible with... feelings... considering I spent over thirty years convincing myself I had none, and being convinced by other people that I had none."

There was silence in her little sitting room for a few moments as his eyes wandered from place to place, slowly, carefully reading every detail of the Egyptologist's life. She was a fascinating creature. It was like those eyes of hers, Molly's eyes, could see right through him and she was not frightened by what she found.

"How is it that I've barely known you more than an hour, and yet it seems as though it's been a thousand years?"

She smiled at him, eyes twinkling. "I've an old soul, Sherlock. You're not the first person to have remarked something similar."

"So what should I... do?" He posed the question slowly, with the slightest hint of uncertainty. "I mean, about Molly."

"I'd have to say she's probably feeling rather forgotten right now. When was the last time you saw her? If I was Dr. Hooper, I'd probably be thinking that I'd outlived my usefulness to you and now you've just tossed me aside."

Startled out of thought, he gripped the arms of the chair and leaned towards her. "You think she'd really think that?"

"She's a woman, Sherlock. I just told you I'd be thinking the same thing if I was Molly Hooper right now."

He was silent. _Do I really come off so callous? What a mystery the female mind is. And how fragile their emotions._

"It was a week before I officially returned. She was the first person I went to see upon my arrival in London."

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_The rain was unrelenting. It coursed down his coat and dripped into his eyes, but he paid it no mind as he stood on the street outside her flat. He'd won. The game was finished and he could come home. But there was something inside him that fought against it. Because while he was dead, there was only one person to whom he belonged._

_He opened the door and climbed the stairs. He stopped outside her door, gloved hand poised to knock. But it opened before he even touched it. And there she was. He hadn't seen his pathologist in eight months. She lingered in the doorway, eyes hesitant but relieved, before she flew at him, wrapping her thin arms around his neck and burying her face in his soaking scarf._

_He froze, arms suspended in the air around her small frame, unsure of himself. Slowly, they settled around her waist. "Eight months, Sherlock. Eight months of silence wondering whether you'd been killed. But you're alive. You came back to me."_

_He just breathed in her scent and nodded into her hair. They stood like that in her doorway for uncounted moments before he released her and stepped back. "It's done, Molly. It's all done."_

_His pathologist smiled up at him with the most infinitesimal tint of regret in her chocolate eyes. Perhaps she thought what he had earlier. Perhaps she didn't want to share him with the world once more. "That's wonderful, Sherlock. Absolutely brilliant. Please, come inside. I'll set the kettle."_

_He followed her into the kitchen and placed himself at the table while she moved about, fussing with the tea. Curiously, Sherlock couldn't shake the feeling that the sight of her felt like cold, clear water running down a parched throat._

_They had their tea in quietude. She stood up eventually and said something he couldn't hear. Giving him a few seconds to respond, she sighed and eased the empty cup from his hands. "Are you staying here tonight, Sherlock?"_

_He looked up at her, finally, eyes searching her face for something he could not name. "Yes, if it isn't a bother."_

_She smiled. "Never. I'll put your blanket and pillow on the couch for whenever you're ready to leave the table."_

_He hummed in response as she walked away, lost in the memory of a gunshot and horrifying laughter. And the sound of her voice. He couldn't register any words but still he was floating in a pool of her soft voice, cradled by the emotion she bore him._

_She returned, in her nightclothes, to tell him she'd set the couch and was going to bed, and did he need anything else? He answered with silence, but as she turned to leave, his hand closed around her wrist. He stood and turned to face her before leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Thank you, Molly Hooper," he said quietly before releasing her. She turned her face away and walked quickly to her bedroom, abandoning him in the kitchen to ponder the glinting of tears he caught in her eyes._

_Sherlock wasn't sure why he'd come to her tonight. He didn't need to. But as he laid on her tiny sofa, legs dangling over the arm, he had a feeling that it had something to do with sentiment. He got up and walked to her bedroom._

_Leaning in the door frame, he watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the play of the moonlight off her soft brown waves. 'You know why you're here,' he admitted to himself as he eased his body down beside hers, wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. She stirred only long enough to rest her head on his shoulder and exhale._

_For the first time in months and months, he closed his eyes and fell asleep._

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"Just go see her. If that's the most you can manage right now, just go. Or she'll go herself," Eloise jarred him from memory once more with those terrifying words. He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. "11:30. She'll be at lunch."

"Go anyway," she returned, "Wait for her in the morgue."

He was out the door without a backward glance, coat swirling behind him. "I'll be seeing you, Sherlock," she called after him with the ghost of a smile on her lips as she sipped her tea.

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**Author's Note: I was a little nervous while writing this chapter, so any feedback at all would be most comforting. I hope you enjoy my little story enough to stick with me! I promise that all will end well. Hugs and gush :)**

**Much love and thanks,  
-The Queen of Fragile Hearts.**


	5. Chapter 5: While My Mind Is on the Moon

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's ****_Sherlock_****, much as I wish I did :) Also, for this chapter I drew some inspiration from a song I adore, a song that I recommend you listen to on loop as you read: Alexi Murdoch's "Wait", from his album Time Without Consequence. It fits so beautifully with the entire premise of my little tale here.**

**Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream or a memory.**

**Shout-outs: Glowing praise to my dear followers and to my newest readers: Whenthebirddies, Angela Robin, and Lila Nightengale! You tickle me pink :) Also, kisses and cuddles to my reviewers, including my newest: Angela Robin and LadyK1138 (Guest)! These fantastic, *wink*, brilliant *wink* ladies have given me such fortitude and sparkling encouragement! Many thanks to everyone who has given this story even a passing glance! Your consideration gives me the fuzzies. Hugs and love and gush, my dears!**

**Summary: In which Sherlock waits for Molly at the morgue and gets a painful surprise, John and Mary plot against their best friends, the Egyptologist is cryptic (ha ha) as ever, and it is still raining.**

**Please enjoy!**

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Chapter Five: While My Mind Is on the Moon

_Feeling on the verge of some great truth,  
Where I'm finally in my place.  
But I'm fumbling still for proof,  
And it's cluttering my space,  
Casting shadows on my face._

_I know I have the strength to move a hill,  
But I can hardly leave my room.  
So I'll sit perfectly still,  
And I'll listen for a tune,  
While my mind is on the moon._

_So if I stumble,  
And if I stall,  
And if I slip now,  
And if I should fall,  
And if I can't be all that I can be_

_Will you... Will you wait for me?_

_'Cause everywhere I seem to be,  
I am only passing through.  
I dream these days about the sea,  
And always wake up feeling blue,  
Wishing I could dream of you._

_So if I stumble,  
And if I fall,  
And if I slip now,  
And lose it all,  
And if I can't be all that I can be_

_Will you... Will you wait for me?_

_And wait for me  
And wait for me  
And wait for me  
Won't you wait for me?  
And wait for me  
Please wait for me  
Please wait for me  
Won't you wait for me?  
And wait for me  
Please wait for me  
Please wait for me  
Won't you wait for me?  
And wait for me  
Please wait for me  
Please wait for me  
Won't you wait for me?  
And wait for me  
Please wait for me  
Please wait for me  
Won't you wait for me?  
Please wait for me  
Please wait for me  
Please wait for me  
Won't you wait for... me?_

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Eloise finished her tea by herself, alone once more in her little flat. _But aren't you always alone, Eloise? And isn't it better this way? But look: you've made a new friend and he's just as damaged as you are. Be careful with him. He's the sort you could fall in love with and there'd be no helping that._

She was just about to settle into her usual routine for this particular day of the year when Sherlock Holmes had burst into her life. She found that she was grateful to have been distracted by him, for an hour or so. Now that he was gone, her tidy little flat and her ancient, aching heart felt contradictingly empty and over-full once more.

She smiled ruefully to herself as she stared out the window at the driving rain, tracing the tracks of raindrops with her eyes. She left her comfy armchair and returned to her beloved piano to resume her playing. _My sonata. Mother's sonata. Derek's sonata._ Her heart twinged as her graceful fingers slipped easily into the familiar tune, caressing the keys as her mind wandered to places painfully familiar.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Sherlock sat in the cab, eyes closed and thoughts adrift in his mind palace. He lingered outside the door to Molly's room before turning the knob and entering. It was the brightest room in his palace, floor-to-ceiling windows flooding the place with sunshine and warmth. Molly sat curled in the chaise by the window, with her cat Toby nestled in her lap and a copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ in her hand. She smiled at him beatifically as he ambled about her room, fingers dancing across this and that. He breathed in the scent of her that permeated her entire chamber. Lavender and clean cotton and something unidentifiable but completely Molly. She left her chaise to come and wrap her arms around his waist, her small, warm frame pressed close against his back.

"Why won't you just talk to me, Sherlock?"

"I can't... find the right words, Molly. I don't... want to... to hurt you."

"You are hurting me by keeping silent, keeping away. If I really counted, you'd come to see me, wouldn't you? I love you, Sherlock, but I can only bear so much."

"You do count. You count so much more than anyone ever has."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Mr. Holmes? Here we are. St. Bart's," the cabbie turned to say. Sherlock nodded, handing him his fare and exiting the cab.

He couldn't remember getting up to her floor, but there he was, opening the door to her darkened morgue and finding his spot at her lab table. She called it his favorite microscope but that wasn't really it. He just liked the routine, he supposed. It was a comfort to him.

_I'm running out of time to find the right words. I just hope she'll wait until I have them._

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"You're telling me, he didn't know the earth went round the sun? Really?" he said, his pleasant voice teeming with laughter as he held the door open for her.

"Really and truly. He's a strange man, Sherlock Holmes. I wouldn't go so far as to say you'd like him, but you'd definitely be impressed," she replied before thanking him and stepping into the lobby of Bart's.

They rode the lift together in companionable conversation all the way up to the morgue. He opened the door for her again, a perfect gentleman, and she switched on the lights.

A familiar figure seated at her lab table lifted his head, crystalline eyes instantly locking onto hers. His gaze shifted to the man behind her and narrowed before returning to Molly.

Her heart leapt into her throat at the sight of him after so long. _Why now? _she thought_, Why now that I've finally given myself a chance?_

"Molly," he said, his deep baritone somehow managing to be even lower and more silken than usual, sending a delicious shiver up her spine. "Who is your companion?"

"Uh, right. Sherlock, this is Dr. Michael Prescott, neurosurgeon. He's new here at Bart's, and we were just out to lunch. Michael, this is Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective," she finished with just a hint of pride in her voice.

Michael advanced the rest of the way into the morgue and extended his hand towards Sherlock. "I'm so pleased to meet you, Mr. Holmes. Molly's told me all about you."

Sherlock ignored the hand offered to him, electing instead to analyze him as quickly as possible.

_36 years old. Yorkshire native, but has lived in London since early post-uni. Unmarried, widowed, actually, wedding band worn on a chain round his neck. Lives alone in a two bedroom 6 blocks from Bart's. Plays the guitar and piano, reads and writes often. Ex-military, old wound in right shoulder. One brother, one sister, strained relationship with his parents, likely from being the middle child. Former athlete, played rugby up until uni. Works as a volunteer at a soup kitchen in his free time. Semi-depressive tendencies, but other than that, no dirty laundry to be aired._

Sherlock frowned as the neurosurgeon's hand slowly returned to his side. "He's normal. He's completely normal. How strange."

Molly grimaced, remembering how many past dates that Sherlock had chased away with his deductions of their frightening secrets. "Yes, how strange. Michael, I think you'd better go now. Text me later?"

"Um, sure. I'll be seeing you, Molly," he said dubiously, leaning down to press a kiss to her cheek before exiting the morgue with a quizzical look at Sherlock.

The door closed behind him with a sort of hush that filled the morgue and stifled any communication between the two except for the unspoken searching each did of the other's eyes. She crossed her arms, leaning against the wall in such a dejected posture. Her mouse-brown hair fell like a curtain around her face as her head drooped to her chest.

Sherlock tensed as he watched her from the lab table. _She makes herself so small when she's uncertain. There's nothing small about her. It's me. I make her small._

"Why did you come back here? Why now? I had finally decided..." came her whispered voice, quivering with emotion. Her hands anxiously stroked up and down her arms, as if his very presence had frozen her to the bone. She was shaking now, pain and frustration written plainly across her face.

_Where are the words? I always have words. If there's anyone to whom I should be able to speak freely, it's Molly._

She turned away from him then, delicate hands seconds from ripping open the laboratory doors and sending her running down the hall. He stood up so abruptly that the stool he'd been perched upon fell with a resounding clatter. "Molly..." he said, so softly and quietly she almost thought she'd imagined it. Her hands paused on the door handles, her shoulders tensed. Tears prickled behind her eyes but she refused to let them fall. Refused to cry over him, in front of him. "Wait..."

The rain continued to lash the windows, intensifying along with the charged silence in the room. Finally, his voice shivered through the still and quiet as he hung his head. "I've been searching, Molly. For the right words. I didn't mean to be away for so long. I simply couldn't find the words. I still don't have them. But I haven't given up looking."

She turned to face him again, eyes closed, lashes brushing her flushed cheeks. Her arms wrapped tight around herself again, seeking some kind of asylum. "What do you want me to do, Sherlock? I can't stand this ambiguity anymore. I just need something tangible. If you're done with me, please just let me go. I know you're back and all that, so what do you need me for? I have nothing left to give. I can't handle much more of this vaguery. I can't handle many more of your glittering, empty words." The tears she had tried so admirably to hold back began to flow unchecked down her cheeks.

He was across the room in seconds, hands gripping her upper arms with only enough force to get her to look up at him. "How can I convince you? What will it take for you to believe that you have such great worth, such strength and kindness? That you matter to me? There's nothing I can say. I know that now. Anything I say now will just come off as another petty act. How can I show you?"

Molly's eyes sparked and blazed with more emotions than Sherlock's mind and newfound heart could register before she said, "I'm not sure if there is anything you can say or do."

His hands fell limply back to his sides, head averted from the intensity of her gaze and eyes downcast. _This is it, then. I've had my chance._

And suddenly, she was wrapping her arms around his shoulders and burying her face into his coat. This time he did not hesitate, settling his own around her waist, clutching her to him as if he was lost at sea and she was the only dry land for miles around.

"But you can let me try to convince myself," said that lovely voice that Sherlock found he knew better than his own, "and I'll give you the time to find those words you've looked so hard for."

"And you'll... you'll wait for me?" his voice reverberated through her slight frame.

Molly drew back enough to look up at him again. There were tear stains on her fragile skin and faint circles beneath those chocolate eyes, yet she gazed up at him with such a poignant, bittersweet smile. "Yes, I will wait for you. As long as you'll come find me too once you've got those words."

He pulled her close again. "I promise I will. But I can't say how long I'll be, Molly. For I've just been presented with the greatest mystery of my life."

"What's that?" she said, hiding a sniffle.

"The sudden revelation that I do indeed have a heart, Molly Hooper, and that it seems to be fixated on you."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John hung his sodden coat over the porch railing and left his shoes beside the mat. He stepped inside with a sigh, calling down the hall to his fiancee. "Mary, love?"

"Done with our little pout, then, are we?" she replied from the kitchen.

Just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting some sort of outrageous demand from Sherlock, but was startled to see Mrs. Hudson's number on the screen.

"He's gone to Bart's. Thought you and the missus ought to know. -Mrs. H."

"Oh, bloody hell," he groaned. "Mary!"

She emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron she'd handmade. "What on earth are you carrying on about?"

"The bloody git's gone to Bart's. Quick, you get ready to go pick her up, and I'll run and get the ice cream. Think we'll need two pints of the cookies 'n' cream? I ought to throttle him."

She placed a calming hand on his arm in an attempt to stop him from pacing a hole in the hallway floor. "John. Do you think we ought to give them a little credit? I mean, I know Sherlock's not an adult, but Molly certainly is. Let's just see. I'm sure she'll make her way over here eventually."

"You're right. You're absolutely right. I just don't trust the twit with her emotions farther than I can toss him." His hand closed over hers, absently playing with her fingers. "Do you know what? Let's see if they can't have it out. And if they do, you'll let Sherlock be my best man? I'll have a chat with Greg. I really don't think he'll mind. Hell, I think he and the boys at the Yard will probably turn the whole bloody thing into a bit of a wager."

She sighed in resignation. "Oh, heavens. Fine. But if he makes a laughingstock of himself or breaks Molly's heart at our wedding, on your head be it, John Watson. Or better yet, on mine, because then there'll be nothing between me and showing the tosser what-for. Mark my words with bright red ink, mister."

"D'you know, Mrs. Watson-to-be, you've got a bit of a salty tongue on you," he said with a smirk and gathered her into his arms.

"Mmmm," she chuckled, "then it's a good thing you're so sweet."

She let go and wandered back to the kitchen. "I think we should go get the ice cream, anyway. Just in case! And maybe some cookie dough! And a romantic comedy!" he shouted at her retreating back.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

**Author's Note: Hello my lovelies! I really hope you liked this. I know it was a bit shorter than the others and maybe resulted in Sherlock being a little OOC ( :/ ) but as I remarked the other day, it's difficult to really capture a character while allowing for growth in one's own story. And obviously, he'll be far from perfect once they get going. But he's learning :) Anyway. Your support gives me wings! **

**Much love and thanks,  
-The Queen of Fragile Hearts.**


	6. Chapter 6: I and My Annabel Lee

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's _Sherlock_, much as I wish I did :) Also, I do not own Edgar Allan Poe's "Annabel Lee."**

**Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream or a memory. Also, I know that last chapter was flufftastic enough to comprise an entire cumulonimbus, so I'll try to be better!**

**Shout-outs: Lollipops and kittens for my fantastic followers, including my new friends: KimTXR, AngelofMusicHidenoLonger, dimitrified aussie, and thefaultinourcsars! ALSO! So many hugs and kisses to my reviewers, especially Anatomydoc, iamthedaisyqueen, Renaissancebooklover108, and my dear Angela Robin. Your feedback gives me the tickles! And can I just say: I am BLOWN AWAY that my little story here has gotten nearly 1,200 views! Thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to read this fic!)**

**Summary: In which Molly goes to see John and Mary, Sherlock thinks (shock and awe), the Egyptologist reveals a little more about herself and so does the neurosurgeon, and it finally stops raining.**

**Please enjoy! I hope you like it! I hope I'm not shaming the fandom with this!**

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Chapter Six: I and My Annabel Lee

Molly spent the rest of her day in a haze. Sherlock had left her with a kiss on her forehead, a promise to see her soon, and about a hundred million self-posed questions. She tried desperately not to overthink, to just be grateful to the ends of the earth that he'd come back and wanted... well, something, with her. She knew she couldn't ask too much of him at a time, what with feelings being such a new phenomenon to him, and she still wasn't quite ready to trust him again. But he seemed so sincere, so hurt at the thought that she couldn't believe him anymore.

Today, Molly refused to work past her shift, and left the morgue promptly at quitting time. _I simply have to go see Mary_, she thought as she rummaged through her purse for her car keys on the way to the lift. She hit the down button, dropping her keys in the process. As she bent to pick them up, the doors opened, and she bumped into someone as she straightened.

"Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry, I'm just such a-" she cut off abruptly as she realized who it was. "Michael! Oh, I'm so sorry. And I'm so sorry about earlier, with Sherlock."

He shook his head with such a heartbreakingly sad smile as he held his arm against the lift doors to keep them open. "I was just on my way to see you. Going down?"

She nodded and stepped inside, anxious to get to Mary's, but also to see if she couldn't cheer him up. "Whatever is the matter, Michael? You were so cheery earlier."

He sighed. "I had hoped to ask you out again, but I see that maybe I've come a bit late."

Her heart sank. "Oh. _Oh_. You mean... Oh, Michael, I'm so sorry. I really am. It's just... Sherlock..."

He raised a placating hand and flashed her another one of those painful smiles, his soft chestnut eyes filling her with such sorrow. "It's okay, Molly. You needn't try to explain the vagaries of the heart to me. I hope we can still be mates, though. I do like you very much."

"I'd love for us to be friends. I like you, too. And, Michael, I just want you to know that-"

He chuckled, "If it wasn't for Sherlock Holmes. I know. It's all right. Right as rain, in fact," he said softly as the lift doors opened to reveal the lobby doors still being lashed by the merciless downpour. "I'll see you to your car, yeah? And we'll have coffee on Monday or something."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Michael had taken the tube to work today and left his Aston Martin at home, not expecting rain at the end of his shift. He liked the feel of the trains as they rumbled through the London Underground. It was such a pleasant feeling that reverberated throughout his whole body. He didn't feel much these days.

_I think I'll take a stroll in the rain. She would have loved that._

The sky was an everchanging vault of grey, and he couldn't help but stop and stare at it now and then. He didn't really know how long he had walked or even which direction he'd gone, but he found himself in a very empty park. Michael was struck with the sudden urge to be still and stationary, and as he passed a lovely, grassy field with no trees to obstruct the sky, he dropped his backpack and laid down in the middle of it. He spread his arms, palms open to catch the raindrops, and gazed up at the rainclouds.

The rain kissed his face more gently now, and he closed his eyes, pretending, pretending. He opened them again to the most dizzying feeling of being upside down. That's how the sky made him feel whenever he laid down to converse with it. He tried to grasp how the rain looked as it fell in endless sheets, bending around nothing on its way.

_It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea..._

He supposed he was depressed. He'd been alone rather too much lately, and his feeble attempt at possibly being with Molly reminded him that he wasn't right inside.

_It's better this way. I shouldn't be with anybody, shouldn't make a woman feel she needs to heal me. There isn't any healing for this sort of disease, except choice. It's my fault I'm in this dark place. I'll just find my way out some time._

There was silence in his mind for a little while.

_I wonder when it was that the rain became such a comfort to me._

Michael's eyes drifted shut again as a familiar numb feeling spread through his limbs.

_Seraphine. Seraphine. Seraphine._

The name echoed through his body, chilling and warming him paradoxically.

_Will you lead me out of this dark place? Or am I here just hoping to find you?_

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Molly practically ran up the front steps to John and Mary's little house, and rung the bell. She squeezed as much rainwater as she could out of her dripping hair while she waited. John answered the door, a tentative smile on his face. "Hello, Molly. How was work today?" he said as he pulled her in out of the damp.

"Not as bad as I'm sure you were expecting. Did you already send Mary out for ice cream?" she replied mischievously.

He looked sheepish and befuddled. "And cookie dough. And a rom-com. But you're suspiciously cheery. Didn't Sherlock go to see you today?"

"You know, now that you mention it, he did."

The confusion on the army doctor's face deepened further. "All right, I give up. Better go let Mary have it, then."

She patted his shoulder lovingly before brushing past him to find Mary in the kitchen. "Mary Morstan, you are never going to believe the day I've had!"

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Sherlock sat staring at his violin, pale fingers sliding gently up and down his bow. His mind was racing, jumping at such a pace he found he couldn't do much more than sit in his favorite chair. Suddenly he reached a conclusion that had him gasping.

_Molly is the change in me. She's grown a heart in me and I haven't found the time to learn how to manage it._

A heart was a troublesome idea. But he did not hate it. His mind palace could scarcely contain her now. Her room was far too small and he was finding her in every corner, every hallway, every room. Why shouldn't she reside in his heart where there was more room for her to sprawl and tangle in him?

He breathed deeply, relishing the realization that he'd solved part of the mystery. This heart of his was indeed focused on Molly because she was the one that gave it to him. It was her heart. It made him care, made him feel. _She_ made him care and feel.

He put his violin back in its case, and sat in the quiet of 221B.

_Remarkable_, he thought, _something solved in record time with no violin and no nicotine._

He blinked a few times at another revelation. Another change, one that he should have noticed earlier. In the month he spent away from Molly, he had burned through case after case. It was her. Thinking of Molly stimulated his processing speed, compelling him to finish cases as quickly as possible so he could return his full attention to her. Yet, thoughts of Molly excited his brain to the point of starving, causing him to dive into whatever case he could find. It was a gorgeous cycle, one he would be content to live in for an indefinite while.

Moreover, since he'd started to learn Molly, he'd found himself able to not only identify, but _sense_ emotions in victims, witnesses, perpetrators. It was an entirely new experience, understanding a new side of humanity that him allowed to solve some cases with a single glance.

_Molly Hooper is better than any drug_, he decided, smiling to himself.

He looked out the window, listening to Eloise's piano and the rain's quiet accompaniment. He listened absently until her music faded into a few discordant notes and then silence.

Sherlock left his chair and found his coat, scarf, gloves, and an umbrella. It was time to go visit his Egyptologist.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Eloise lowered the key cover gently and pushed the bench beneath the piano. She wrapped herself in another sweater as she curled herself into the study's window seat. Her head rested against the glass and she wrapped her arms tightly around her legs.

_Happy anniversary, my darling._ Tears prickled behind her eyes as she drew a chain from her pocket. Two rings clinked against a set of BA tags while she raised them to the watery light, the gentle resonating sound pulling her away to another time.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

_A knock sounded at the door of their little house in Manchester. Eloise wiped her hands on her apron and answered it with a smile. "Oh, Gregory, how... are..." her voice trailed off as she saw the look on the face of her husband's best friend. He tried to smile for her, but failed. She took his hand. "What is it, Gregory?"_

_Tears began to slide down the sergeant's face. "It... It was a roadside bomb, Ellie. There was nothing any of us could have done. I was in the truck behind him and I saw...You know I would have taken a bullet for him. He was a great man and a good soldier."_

_She shook her head in disbelief, her free hand made its way to cover her mouth before she began to sob. Then, from his pocket, he produced a pair of tags and... and his ring. His wedding ring. He always kept it on the chain with his ID so he wouldn't lose it or damage it. And so she would be even closer to his heart, he'd alway said._

_Her knees buckled and she slumped against the door frame as she fell. There was nothing to hold back her tears now. Gregory knelt beside her and gathered her into his arms, choking on his own bitter tears. She clung to him, shaking hands clutching the lapels of his military jacket, tears staining his shoulder._

_"I'm so sorry, Ellie. I'm so, so sorry. I wish it had been me. Oh, I do. Anything that would save you from this moment," he was rambling between sniffles. She began to wail, grief wracking her entire body. "I'm so sorry, Ellie."_

_And all the while, the sun shone brightly, the birds sang, children played in the street, a breeze fluttered through the lush, green trees. And there wasn't a cloud in the sky._

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"How many years ago was it?" said a soft, deep voice from the doorway. She wouldn't look at him. _Not with these shattered eyes_. "Read me like sheet music again, Sherlock?"

She was silent for a few heavy moments. "Six," she answered, her voice weak and tired.

He hadn't left the doorway. "Aren't you going to tell me it's all right? That I should have moved on by now, carried on with my life?"

"No."

She turned to look at him after rubbing her face, trying to pretend she hadn't been on the verge of breakdown. "Why not? Anyone else would. Everyone always does."

"I'd say that you have carried on, Eloise. You spent five years making terrific discoveries in your field. Besides, I noted earlier that your time abroad was spent partially running away from something and partially as a distraction. I knew you were a military widow, I've just learned recently that there are some things I should not say aloud."

She gave a mirthless laugh and pressed her self more tightly into the window seat. "Did you also deduce that today was our anniversary? That I'd miscarried his child a year before he died?"

He nodded, eyes closed, before saying, "I'm absolutely rubbish at... comforting people, what with... caring and feelings and all that being such a novice area for me. Also, what could I possibly say to you that you haven't heard a million times before? You know how you feel and I don't."

"I suppose you're absolutely right. But could you... could you just sit here with me awhile? We needn't speak, I'm just feeling so terribly alone," she said, gesturing to the empty half of the window seat.

He shifted uncomfortably in the door frame. She noted his uncertainty before quietly adding, "Please?"

He slowly made his way to the window and sat down facing into the study, spine straight and hands tightly gripping his knees.

"Oh, calm down. What's the bee in your bonnet?" she joked with little enthusiasm.

"I've just... had my fill of proximal human contact for the day. It's something I am not used to and I suspect it will take me more time than anything else... And I came to tell you that I went to see Molly."

"That's good," she offered numbly before turning her face back to the window. They slipped into the companionable silence she promised. Slowly, the tension left Sherlock's body and he leaned against the window.

Just as slowly and carefully, the rain pattered a stop, as they sat in the solace of each other's company.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"And he just, sort of, held you?" Mary said, disbelief plain in her voice as she stared at Molly over her cup of tea.

"Mmhmm. I can't even remember for how long."

Mary shook her head in a daze. "We thought for sure he was going to tear you to pieces."

Molly laughed. "I suppose he could have done. I think he nearly did, but he surprised the both of us. And speaking of tearing to pieces, why oh why, Mary Alicia Morstan, did you ever give that sweet neurosurgeon my number?"

"Because he's sweet, of course! And how was I to know that Sherlock bloody Holmes would choose today to become a human being? I thought you'd get on so well with Dr. Prescott. He's a charming man. And I sensed in him a... kindred spirit to yours."

"You mean a lonely and depressive spirit? And I had to tell him, the same day I gave him the impression we could have something, that I was going to just drop it because a man who ignored me for a month came back and asked me to wait for him to figure out what I am to him? It killed me to say- Well, actually I didn't have to tell him. He knew. That was the worst bit. And that lachrymose smile on his face..."

Mary sighed, scrubbing her face with her palms. "I suppose I'll just apologize for something I had no control over!"

"Oh, I don't mean to rake you over the coals. You just should have seen how dejected Michael looked, and I felt so beastly for being so happy."

"He'll be all right, Molls. The heavens have a way of taking care of aching souls like him."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Michael had fallen into a deep, peaceful sleep. He dreamt of Seraphine, of holding her hand and walking by the lakeside. And he was awoken by a feeble ray of sunshine that stroked his face as it streamed through a break in the clouds.

_What a fool am I, lying drenched in the grass in a public park. Now Michael, you've had your fit. Go home and clean up._

His spine popped, vertebrae shifting into place, as he stood up.

_I'll get through, one day_, he thought with a small smile as he collected his sopping backpack and found his way out of the park.

_I was a child and she was a child, in this kingdom by the sea, but we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee..._

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

**Author's Note: AAAAAHHH! I agonized over this chapter for hours. PLEASE please please please let me know what you think! I'm grateful for any and all advice and criticism, as long as you're not too mean :) I hope you enjoyed my piece here! I can't say exactly how long it will be, but you'll definitely know when it's over. Hugs and gush to everyone who read this!**

**Much love and thanks,**

**-The Queen of Fragile Hearts.**


	7. Chapter 7: Orestes and Iphigenia

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's ****_Sherlock_****, much as I wish I did :) Neither do I own the myth of Orestes and Iphigenia, which is best outlined in Aeschylus's ****_Oresteia_****.**

**Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream or a memory.**

**Shout-outs: balloons and chocolates to my beloved followers, including my new readers: Mythx, abc11111, come-along-to-221b, InterMoon, WhoNeedsTheLimelight and phntomphansunite! Your support sends me over the moon! Also, great big bear hugs to my reviewers, especially Renaissancebooklover108, Anatomydoc, Kataraang0, AnonReviewFairy (Guest), and my lovely, wonderful, insightful Angela Robin. These guys wrote the sweetest things on the last chapter that made me just want to cry tears of joy! Finally: this little fic here is now over 1500 views! I am unbelievably flattered and grateful that so many have taken the time to read Five Doctors, and totally overwhelmed that my silly tale here has reached so many people! :) Hugs and gush to anyone who's invested their time in my work!**

**Summary: In which Sherlock is working harder than ever to understand human interaction, and other stuff happens, but I can't really find a clever way to say it while being vague and non-commital :)**

**Please enjoy!**

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Chapter Seven: Orestes and Iphigenia

In the week following that fateful day at the morgue, Sherlock made a very concerted effort to understand his sudden need for human interaction. He went about it in his logical way, conducting experiments and gathering data. He found himself going with John to the tailor's for final fittings of their suits for the wedding. He started lingering at Lestrade's office after cases to try, and fail miserably, his hand at casual conversation, electing instead to go to the shooting range with the Detective Inspector since he was at least much more familiar with guns than with social niceties. He had tea with Mary Morstan, in a feeble attempt to welcome her into their odd little "family" of so many strange members, during which he received an obscure lecture about everything and nothing. He would even sit with Mrs. Hudson for an hour or two in 221A, watching crap telly and doing his best to hold his tongue and pretend to enjoy it. Finally, he also made a little more space in each person's room in his mind palace for odd, insignificant personal tidbits, since this was something people did in regards to their friends, according to Eloise.

However, the larger parts of those seven days he spent alternately with his Egyptologist and his pathologist. Somehow, making extra time to spend with those two very intelligent and very important young women seemed like much less of a chore than it did for the others. But he was learning, and they were helping him, in their own ways.

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He had settled into a kind of routine with Eloise. In the early morning, he'd go to her flat and they'd have a cuppa in comfortable silence. She would then go to her piano and play whatever came to mind, sometimes composing a melody out of the air that drifted away just as quickly into the ether. She remarked that when she composed in front of the keys she could never remember any of it when she finished, but when she sat down to write anything she was absolutely rubbish. Now and then, Sherlock would bring over his violin and she would convince him to play a harmony with her.

Then the pair would retire to her sitting room and discuss whatever their nimble minds happen to find interesting. That was definitely a new experience for him: having an intricate conversation with someone who could not only keep up but challenge and counter him at every turn. He supposed, of course, he could have had such talks with Mycroft if he could stand his brother for more than five minutes, but obviously the Egyptologist's company was infinitely more tolerable.

Always, the conversation drifted towards Molly. Sherlock was still in uncharted waters when it came to her, and Eloise had become a sort of mentor for him in matters of the heart, since he was so determined not to injure his pathologist anymore. Day by day, she informed him on the workings of human emotions, specifically those of women. She was a strict teacher, however, and if he dared to question why something mattered so much, she would remind him quite pointedly that in this sitting room, she was mistress and he the novice floating abandoned in a sea of the everchanging feelings of mankind.

And little by little, Sherlock would carefully brush and lift from the dirt ancient relics of her past that had lain undisturbed by human hands for uncounted years.

He learned that her only living relative was her old Granddad, who lived in a small country chateau he'd purchased in France, reportedly for the fresh air and the flowers. The old men's watch Sherlock had noticed that first day was his; he'd given it to her as a gift for earning her doctorate. He was justifiably proud of her respect and ardor for antiquities and their preservation. She visited him as often as possible, and loved him desperately, since he was all she had left, considering her father had died of cancer a year after she graduated from uni and her mother only months after her wedding. She had no living siblings, but could count 5 stillborn or miscarried brothers and sisters, much to her sorrow. Her family was relatively old and as such had a fortune to its name that one day would belong to her. She planned to invest some and use the rest to fund archaological societies and her own digs in Egypt.

Her late husband was Derek McAvoy, a decorated soldier who had perished in Afghanistan. After his death, his best friend, Gregory Philmore, had always spent his leave with Eloise, wherever she happened to be, watching over her and caring for her as a sort of homage to Derek, until he was shot three years later. Gregory hadn't any family either, and so when the news came, the Army had sent with it his tags and a crisply folded flag. She kept both Derek's and Gregory's medals in a shadowbox over her fireplace, and their flags hung over her bed, side by side.

Sherlock was very sad to learn that he was her only friend in London, considering he was merely an accolyte at the shrine of friendship, and still absolutely terrible at comforting people. Most of her friends had moved to America, a few had died unfortunately young, and her five-year absence had not provided her the opportunity to befriend anyone other than coworkers she rarely saw or archaologists from other countries. She had claimed not to mind, saying that she was really a very solitary creature anyway, content to while her days with her dusty relics and her taciturn cats.

She'd named her daughter Verena, and slept every night with a blanket Eloise's mother had crocheted for the baby. She confessed to him that not a day passed that she didn't wish she had the chance to meet her daughter, but was somewhat relieved she hadn't  
had to raise her child without her husband. With a wistful voice she said she believed she wouldn't have been strong enough to see his face, hear his voice, look into his eyes everyday and still be the mother their child would have needed desperately.

Eloise had even told him the significance behind the names of her cats, a brother and sister named Orestes and Iphigenia. While they were still kittens, Iphigenia had disappeared, and since she was so young and fragile, the Egyptologist had given up the search after a month, thinking the little cat to be dead. Orestes had fallen into what she could only describe as a depression, and whenever he wasn't sulking, he ran madly about her flat as if pursed by Alecto herself. Six months later, Iphigenia had appeared outside her door, alive and well and yowling for a bowl of milk. The pair reunited, Orestes ceased his dashing about and became a cat of leisure.

Fears, and hopes, and dreams. Her mother had suffered from juvenile arthritis that began when she started college. Eloise had always been frightened of that particular part of her genetics. It had not exhibited itself yet but it still could. She would lose everything she held dear, her piano, her writing, her archaological work. She told him that she'd always dreamed of finishing her days as a book store owner, tending a little shop in Manchester on the street where she'd lived with Derek.

Yet she did not part with these artifacts lightly, always insisting for one of his own in return. At the end of their visits, she would see him to the door and place her soft hand on his cheek, while telling him to be careful with Molly and not to be a stranger.

What he did not tell her was that her newly added room in his mind palace was modeled exactly after her sitting room and its adjoining study, since those were the rooms of her flat in which he spent the most time. And what he would never tell her was that she sat on her sofa between Derek and Gregory in their military dress, her husband's arm around her shoulders and his best friend's hand in hers. Her parents stood smiling behind her, her dear Granddad was seated in her favorite armchair reading the evening post, and all of her friends were gathered around her piano, laughing and singing. Whenever Sherlock would enter her room, she would look up and smile with all the happiness he knew she had deserved but hadn't been allowed to experience, and cradle the pink bundle in her free arm as soft, waning sunlight streamed through the windows, filling the room with a peaceful glow.

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From 220B, he would either go to the Yard, to John and Mary's house, or to Bart's. He would visit Molly at her lunch hour, which she had taken to spending in her office. He had decided this time slot carefully, after counsel from Eloise, so that they would be away from the laboratory setting, which would reassure Molly that he was there to see her and not to elicit any favors. She had viewed his lunchtime visits rather hesitantly at first, but by the end of the week, he would find her opening her office door to him promptly at 11:30 before he could even knock, with a lovely smile on her face.

In another calculated move, he would not stay past lunch to continue reaffirming his presence as strictly social and not work-related. His afternoons were spent either flying through cases, watching shoddy dramas with Mrs. Hudson, or sitting in his chair at Baker Street, absently playing his violin as he contemplated every single facet of his life at present.

But his evenings were reserved only for Molly. Precisely as her shifted ended, Sherlock would send her a polite text asking if he could come over to her flat for a while. Another tip from Eloise: _"Seriously, Sherlock. ASK if you can see her at home, don't just barge in unannounced. And better yet, you're not dead anymore so stop BREAKING into her flat!"_ As with their lunch dates she had answered with hesitance at first, but she carefully warmed up to the idea that he wanted to be an actual part of her life.

He would arrive promptly, thirty minutes after she'd returned home, and knock on her door. Molly would usually answer within 15 to 20 seconds, fussing with the sleeves of her jumper or tugging the side-braid she always wore after hours. He would follow her to her little kitchen table and they would have their customary coffees before they found some perfectly normal thing to do. Well, normal by their standards.

One evening Sherlock spent an entire two hours slowly naming every bone in her body in every language he knew, and in turn she mimicked on him the incisions and examinations she made while doing an autopsy. Another night, she insisted that he read to her. She handed him her well-loved copy of _Pride and Prejudice_, and he'd read a chapter or two before asking her to read a passage of one of her papers. The next day, they passed a few hours lost together in music. He'd brought his violin and with her low, gentle voice she weaved a simple harmony through the chords of his instrument.

Later in the week, she came home with a documentary on the decline of the Victorian Era. The pair of them sat on her tiny sofa, totally enraptured. But by the end of the four-hour feature, Sherlock looked down to remark on the film and found her fast asleep, head resting sweetly on his shoulder, her small hands loosely wrapped around his forearm. He frowned, worried that he'd bored her before reminding himself that she had indeed worked a 12-hour shift that day. As delicately as possible, he eased away from her so that he could lift her small frame without waking her. He silently walked to her room and tucked her into her bed after removing her shoes. He made sure that all of her windows were latched and all the lights were off before he pulled on his Belstaff and scarf. Taking her keys from the table in the entry way, he locked her door and slipped the key ring through the mail slot. And he simply went home.

They never felt the need to spoil anything with useless chatter. He had memorized every trivial, miscule, infinitesimal detail of Molly Hooper, and only one other person knew him barely half as well as Molly did. Moreover, she knew exactly how she felt about him and about herself, and he could only work out such things in the quiet of his own mind, so why should they trifle with half-hearted conversation? And they were getting on so well.

But there was still such reticence in her at times.

He'd lift a hand to brush a lock of hair from her eyes and she'd shy away with a nervous smile. She would do her best to sit as far away from him on the sofa as possible, though she'd always end up next to him. Little things like that.

Those little things told him she still didn't trust him. She was nearly there, but not quite, as if a small part of her still believed that at any moment he was going to turn cold and leave her forever. That left Sherlock engrossed in the saturnine irony that she was pushing away from human contact just while he suddenly found himself starving for it.

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**Author's Note: I don't even know what to say about this fluff. Comments are definitely appreciated since you know of my constant battle to reconcile canon-Sherlock with character-growth Sherlock in my story. Thank you sooooooo much for reading! I adore all of you! And interested parties will be glad to know I'll have the next chapter up in a day or two :)**

**Much love and thanks,  
-The Queen of Fragile Hearts.**


	8. Chapter 8: The Turning Point

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's ****_Sherlock_****, much as I wish I did :)**

**Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream or a memory. Also, I know she's never been called by her first name in the show, but some ACD stories have Mrs. Hudson's given name as Martha, so that's what I've used.**

**Shout-outs: Okay, I am totally just going to wax eloquent about you folks. And by that I mean GUSH! Praise and adoration to my dear followers, including my new readers: TillyHo, bhfirewife, coloradoandcolorado1, Honourable, pruplup4, sherlockscoat, Irene90, rory'sfan04, and RhiannonAmidala! Next, reviewers. You folks have been overwhelmingly kind and supportive, and your advice has really given me such direction and peace of mind while writing. All of you are are fantastic, brilliant, and cool *wink*, particularly the reviewers from my last chapter that I was so nervous about: SammyKatz, crooney83, TillyHo, Irene90! Finally for reviews, I want to give a few special thank-yous to the indefatigable Angela Robin, who has become such a guiding light; to pruplup4 who nearly reduced me to a quivering little mass with a very impactful and helpful assessment; and to my dear Anatomydoc, with whom I had the privilege of conversing with in depth today! ALSO! I am unbelievably thrilled and overjoyed to have been added to "Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before...", the Sherlolly community administrated by Colorblind City. I cannot even begin to say how flattered I am to belong to it since that community was part of what inspired me to write this piece, in addition to the fantastic Emcee Frodis and her story, "The Full House". To whoever recommended Five Doctors and to Colorblind City for admitting it, I can't even begin to express how much it means to me. To close, I just want to say thank you to everyone who has even considered my work, bringing this story to an astonishing 1900 views! I ought to throw all of you magnanimous, magnificent people a grand tea party :) And, with that, I think I ought to give the gushing a rest for now and get on with the story telling.**

**Summary: In which Molly has tea with our dear Mrs. Hudson and makes a discovery which brings her to a vital crossroads while Mary tries to make things up to the melancholy Dr. Prescott.**

**Please please please enjoy!**

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Chapter Eight: The Turning Point

Molly woke up Sunday morning feeling wonderfully content. _How strange is this world we live in,_ she thought with a stretch, a sigh, and a smile. She folded her arms behind her head as she stared at the ceiling, replaying the past week over and over in her head. She tangled herself in the memories, wrapping them close around her like a warm blanket. It had seemed like a dream from which she constantly feared being awoken.

Yet, he'd been absolutely perfect that entire week, gentlemanly and kind. He had made such an effort to put her before himself, even agreeing to watch her favorite insipid chick flicks and not protesting when she insisted he eat. Holding doors for her, taking her coat, this and that. She smiled wickedly as she congratulated herself on a little game she'd played with him, in which she would wear her most childish sweaters for their evenings to watch him press his lips together as he struggled not to comment. He never caved, however, and she was immensely proud of him for it.

She rolled over to stare at Toby. He stared back, displaying all the indifference of an offended cat before sauntering away, swishing his tail agitatedly as he went to laze on the window sill. "Oh, don't even give me that, Toby! You practically spent all week on Sherlock's lap!" she called after him. It was true. The orange tabby had a strange relationship with the detective: as soon as Sherlock settled on the sofa, Toby would jump into his lap and begin purring obnoxiously loud, but after a few hours, the cat would bite his hand and run away to hide for the rest of the evening.

With one last, luxuriant stretch, she left her bed to go make her Sunday-morning cuppa. Toby glared at her from the sitting room window as she wandered about her little kitchen, humming a tune she couldn't name. She tried unsuccessfully not to be too happy, to remember that she needed to make absolutely sure of his intentions before allowing herself to dream. But as she sat at the table, waiting for the kettle to boil, she simply couldn't help grinning madly as she thought of taking his arm this Saturday evening, both of them in their formal clothes as he escorted her to stand beside the altar as their best friends were married. _Maybe one day..._

The kettle's shrill whistle startled her out of that dangerous reverie. She knew better than to think too far into the future where Sherlock was concerned. They were still on very new and uncertain ground, and she knew that, wherever they were headed, they were definitely weren't going there fast. _You know better, Molly. You know better. Daydreaming about Sherlock Holmes is borderline insane. Just... take each day as it comes. And you know you'll always be happier as whatever the two of you are than you would be if you were married to somebody you've only convinced yourself to love._

Molly nodded to herself as she poured her tea. Above all else, she decided she must absolutely remember three things: _I am Molly Hooper, and I love Sherlock Holmes, but that is not what defines me._

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Mary chewed on the end of her pencil as she pored over her planning binder. She had noticed a small, empty table she had overlooked at the reception venue and had found herself thinking she ought to invite Michael Prescott. She still felt so terribly guilty about what had happened between him and Molly, even though it wasn't anyone's fault. _Except possibly Sherlock's_, she thought bitterly.

Mary thought that perhaps a party would be a bolster to the man's spirits. Many of their colleagues would be there, and it would give him an opportunity to mingle with them outside of work. He really was a very sweet man, he was just new at Bart's and quite shy. It also might be nice for him to know that he hadn't been forgotten. _That's it, then. He has to come. Perhaps he'll even meet someone._

"John!" she shouted from the study. "Can I tear you away from Britain's Got Talent for just half a mo?" She was answered with grumbling and the sound of his footsteps headed her way. He appeared in the doorway, looking like a child who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I wasn't watching it, really. I was... reading and it was just on in the backround."

She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, okay. Had to try, though. What is it you wanted, love?"

"I've just found a vacant table, near the back edge of the garden. It's really only large enough for two or three people. We haven't placed anyone at it, and I think that we ought to invite Dr. Prescott. You know? The new neurosurgeon at Bart's?"

John nodded. "I know a little of him. We've bumped into each other a time or two in the hospital cafeteria. He's a good man." John had taken a position in the clinic at Bart's a few months ago, to be closer to Mary and to their house.

"Yes, I rather think he is. Anyway. What do you think? Shouldn't we invite him?"

John frowned and said, "Hey, I'm just the groom. I really thought I wasn't allowed to fuss with the planning nonsense."

"You aren't," she retorted with a grin, "He's coming. I just thought I'd let you know I'd made a decision, and you'd be free to disagree, but all you'd get was the opinion and nothing more."

"Ah, I see. Testing how well the family trousers fit? Well don't get too comfortable, madam. I'll expect for there to be room for the both of us."

"Are you saying that you want to borrow my clothes, John Watson? I have to say, I don't think they'll flatter your figure overly much."

"Yep. That's it. You've just earned a tickling," he said, unable to contain his laughter now. She jumped from her chair with a screech and ran about the study, her fiance in hot pursuit.

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Molly was enjoying a casual morning at home with Toby, whom she'd finally coaxed into forgiving her, when a glance at her calendar reminded her that she was to have lunch with Mrs. Hudson. She got dressed as quickly as she could and decided to take a cab to Baker Street so she didn't have to fuss with her car.

She arrived a few minutes late and a little out of breath from all the hurrying she'd done while trying to be on time. Of course Mrs. Hudson didn't care. She admitted Molly to 221A with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Oh, never you mind about being late. I've nowhere to be but at dinner with Mr. Philby tonight and that's ages off. You make yourself comfy at the table and I'll set out lunch."

Molly loved spending time with the plucky, purple-loving landlady. She found that Mrs. Hudson reminded her, in a way or two, of her late Mama, and was comfortable to let the older woman mother her now and then. She had taken to having these lunches with Mrs. Hudson over the past three years, and in the time that Sherlock had been back, she'd found no reason to stop because Molly simply adored her company.

They had some finger sandwiches and salad, since neither of them were inclined towards large meals. Molly washed the plates while Mrs. Hudson made some lemonade before the pair retired to her sitting room to watch a soap and chatter about this and that. After an hour, Mrs. Hudson broached a topic Molly had secretly been hoping to avoid altogether.

"Molly dear, how are you and Sherlock getting on these days?"

"Oh. You know. It could be worse. In fact, it has been. I think I'd even go so far as to say we're doing well."

"That's so good to hear. I'm just so pleased he's been careful to make time just to spend with you. The silly boy is always dashing about, from here, to the Yard, to John and Mary's, to Bart's, to case after case, all over England! Not to mention the mornings he spends with my new tenant over at 220. He's really taken quite a shine to her."

Molly's heart lurched uncomfortably. "Err, who is this new tenant he spends so much time with?" she said carefully, dread creeping into her thoughts.

"Oh, she's a lovely girl. Very pretty and smart. I believe her name is Eloise. Sherlock speaks very highly of... her..." Mrs. Hudson trailed off as Molly's face fell. "Oh. Oh my dear. I really don't think it's like that. I'm certain it isn't. Sherlock isn't that kind of man. I didn't raise him like that, anyway."

Doubt slithered its way into Molly's mind, like the wicked serpent into the Garden. "But what if he is, Mrs. Hudson? You know as well as I do that the man is a brilliant actor. And he knows he has me, all wrapped up..." she said, tears welling.

"I do wish you'd call me Martha, dear. We've been friends for ages now. And I wish you'd give yourself, and him, a little more credit. My Sherlock has never had any interest in personal relationships whatsoever until you and John came along, and he's certainly never pursued anyone at all for... well, you know what I mean."

Molly blinked back the tears that had threatened to spill, and inwardly berated herself for being so foolish. Of course there wasn't anything of that sort going on behind her back. Mrs. Hudson was absolutely right. Sherlock was not that kind of man. _But why wouldn't he tell me about this Eloise?_ Molly realized with a heavy heart that she had overreacted because she was still expecting him to be false with her, still bracing herself for the final blow that it seemed he did not intend to deliver.

Still, the smallest remnant of the frail, insecure Molly peeked through in that moment.

"Is he... Is he with her now?"

"No, I actually think he's busy terrorizing the boys at the Yard. He stopped in before he left to shout something about throttling that Anderson fellow for a botched forensics report," she said before taking a sip of her lemonade. Mrs. Hudson set the glass on the side table and placed a hand over Molly's. "You know, I really think you ought to go see Eloise. Find out from her what's afoot."

Molly sighed. "I... I supposed you're right. I should gather a little more information before I break an ankle while jumping to conclusions."

Mrs. Hudson laughed as she shooed the pathologist out of her flat. "Right you are, dear. 220B is the one you'll want."

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After Mary finally fended off the vastly overhyped tickling John had threatened, she returned to the study to dig Michael Prescott's number out of her purse. She punched the digits into her phone and waited for him to pick up, absently doodling on a stray piece of paper.

"Hello, this is Michael."

"Hi, Michael. It's Mary, from work."

"Right, Mary. How are you? I realize I've been a little... distant recently."

"Oh, don't worry about me. I'm getting married in a week, so that's me sorted. It's you I've phoned to talk about."

"Oh?" She couldn't miss the note of surprise in his voice.

"Yes. I wanted to apologize for the whole Molly and Sherlock fiasco. I didn't know he was going to pick that exact day to go back to her."

He was silent for a moment or two. "That's all right, Mary. I really don't see how that's anyone's fault at all."

"Anyway, I also wanted to ask if you were busy this Saturday night? As I mentioned, I'm getting married, and I was hoping you'd come to the reception. You see, the invitations were already posted before you came to work at Bart's, and I just remembered that I had meant to invite you last week but time got away from me what with last minute planning and all that. I'd really like it if you'd come." She bit her lip as she waited for him to reply, guilty about fudging the invitation bit.

"I... I would love to, Mary. I'm... touched by your consideration. I'll see you at work tomorrow, yeah?"

She agreed, and they said their good-byes. Mary released the breath she'd been holding throughout the whole conversation, thankful that he'd agreed to come, and went to go poke fun at her fiance again.

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Molly took two deep breaths, and another for good measure before raising her hand to knock on the door of 220B. The woman who answered the door had a friendly smile on her face as she started to say, "May I help you?" but she trailed off before finishing the sentence and so did her smile. "Merciful heavens. The bloody idiot."

Molly blinked. "Pardon?"

"I am so terribly sorry. You're Dr. Molly Hooper, pathologist, and I'm Dr. Eloise Johnson, Egyptologist, and he didn't say a word about me, did he?" the woman said as she ushered Molly to an overstuffed armchair and disappeared into the kitchen. "We'll just have to have tea now. That's all there is to it. Oh, I could just smack him."

Molly sat rigidly still in the armchair, looking around the woman's flat. She returned a few minutes later and handed Molly a cup of English Breakfast with milk. "Your favorite, I've been reliably informed," she said as she settled into the opposite chair. Molly relaxed slightly as a lovely grey cat found its way to her lap.

The Egyptologist sipped her tea as she considered Molly. "Let me guess: it was Mrs. Hudson? Oh, I like her well enough but there are times I wish she would stop and think a moment."

Molly placed her cup a side table and rubbed her temples as she attempted to absorb everything. "Could you just, slow down a bit? This is all very surreal."  
Eloise leaned forward as she said emphatically, "I promise you. There is nothing between me and Sherlock Holmes except friendship. I do hope you don't mind if I slap him next time he's over here?"

Molly finally settled into the chair and gave a small smile. "I think a sound smack might do him some good. Now, why don't you start from the beginning, so I can have a fair shot at understanding what's going on?"

"Of course. It's best I do, to keep the hapless git out of trouble."

At that, Molly laughed out loud, and reclaimed her tea, preparing to be amused.

"Last week, Sherlock came up to my flat because he heard me playing the piano. We talked for an hour or so until your name came up, at which point I put the fear of the Lord into him and convinced him to go see you. Since then, he's been in here every morning, enjoying my company and having a sort of lesson, if you will. As soon as you showed up on my doorstep, I knew exactly what the colossal fool had done and what you would undoubtedly be thinking of the two of us."

Molly grinned. "Well, I can't say you're wrong. There was a small part of me that... Anyway. A lesson? You're telling me that the great Sherlock Holmes has willingly been instructed in something for an entire week? What on earth could you possibly be teaching him?"

"You. I've been teaching him you. And people in general, but the largest lessons are always centered on you."

Tears began welling in Molly's eyes again and she stared into her tea, hoping to hide them.

"You should hear him talk about you, Molly Hooper, when I convince him to quit thinking for a moment or two. How do you think I recognized you so quickly, considering we've never actually met? He has described every detail of you to me. That man is desperate not to screw up the second chance you've given him, and he cares about you so much more deeply than he's realized yet."

Eloise paused, noticing the tears that now flowed freely down the pathologist's cheeks. She continued in a softer voice.

"It's quite funny how a man as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes has made it this far with barely any knowledge of feelings whatsoever. I have to try very hard not to laugh whenever he looks so fascinated about something that's just common sense to the rest of us. But he's so eager to learn and understand, and it's all for you. I think you're a stronger woman than I, Molly, because I know he was already a changed man when he appeared in my doorway last week, and I don't know how you managed him before. And I'd really like us to be friends."

Molly dried her tears with the sleeve of her jacket, and smiled as she said, "You know, Eloise, I think between the two of us, we just might have made him into a real human being, with a beating heart."

The Egyptologist laughed, nodding her agreement as her front door swung open loudly. Sherlock leaned in the doorframe, not looking up from his phone as he said, "Eloise, I hope you're not busy tonight. I'd like you to come and meet Molly. I think the two of you-" He looked up, registering the presence of two women before finishing. "Would get on swimmingly. Hello, Molly. How was your day off?"

She grinned mischievously, exchanging a look with Eloise before they both grabbed pillows and lobbed them at him. He caught them, of course, cat-like reflexes undiminished by his surprise at seeing Molly. "You are such an idiot, Sherlock! How could you not tell Molly about me?"

His brow furrowed as he dropped the pillows. "Not good?"

Molly watched his clever mind racing, and was so pleased to see him draw a blank as to why spending half his time alone with another woman in her flat would raise a red flag. Such a thing simply wasn't an option for Sherlock. It hadn't even crossed his mind as to what his relationship with Eloise would look like to others, so nonexistent was the possibility to him, and she felt that she had never loved him more that she did in that moment. And with that unsettled look of confusion on his beautiful face, the last of Molly's insecurities fell away, and she finally forgave him for everything.

Eloise, however, was more determined to drag this out. "Do you know what this poor girl was thinking when she came up to see me? That you and I were having an affair. See the error of your ways now, mister? She's even given me permission to slap you!"

Comprehension dawned on him at last, and was quickly replaced by apprehension. "Molly, I-"

She raised a hand to quiet him. "She's just torturing you, Sherlock. Eloise has already explained. You needn't say anything."

He quickly reverted into his usual expressionless thinking face. Eloise rolled her eyes and vacated her chair. "This is where he likes to sit. See if you can't pull him out of La-La Land long enough to get him over here while I go make some more tea."

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**Author's Note: Wow, this ended up being much longer than I intended, and thankfully more lighthearted than the others thus far. I think that came mostly from John and Mary, whom I realized I'd been neglecting. Hope you all are enjoying this every bit as much as I am! Let me know what you think, my dears :)**

**Much love and thanks,  
-The Queen of Fragile Hearts.**


	9. 9: Our Yesterdays Lengthen Like Shadows

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's Sherlock, much as I wish I did :) The name for this chapter I drew from a piece of concert music I played one year. I can't remember the composer, but I'm not him :)**

**Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream or a memory. ALSO! I have added a couple paragraphs to this chapter. I just realized this morning that I left them out and so I fixed that.**

**Shout-outs: Puppies and ice cream for all my fantastic followers, including my most recent: FangFan, obsessiveicequeen, and ceces-pizzeria! I am amazed at the overwhelming response I received for the last chapter from my reviewers: iamthedaisyqueen, Anatomydoc (always!), Renaissancebooklover108, hildal, Irene90, TillyHo, and the amazing Angela Robin! Finally, I have run out of idioms to express my joy about the sheer volume of views Five Doctors has gathered: nearly 2,400! My thanks to every single person who's even looked at this story!**

**Summary: A ghost tells a story while the living carry on.**

**Please enjoy!**

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Chapter Nine: Our Yesterdays Lengthen Like Shadows

Gregory Philmore sat on the 9 o'clock train to Manchester in his military dress. He stared at the landscape as it raced past the windows, while his fingers fussed with the tags which until two days ago had belonged to his best friend. He was glad that they'd sent him home early so he could be the one to tell her, so she wouldn't have to hear it from a stranger, so he could hold her when she inevitably began to cry. But he was also dreading the look on her face.

The train rolled to a stop, and he stood, straightening his uniform and already swallowing tears. He decided to walk the short distance to Ellie's. He reasoned that it would give him more time to figure out how to tell her that she was a widow.

Suddenly, he found himself at her doorstep without any words. He'd spent the entire walk remembering their wedding day, remembered placing Ellie's hand in Derek's and taking his place beside the two. She'd asked him to give her away since her father was gone and her Granddad was in the hospital. He loved her dearly, as if she were his own sister and he couldn't have been happier to walk her down the aisle. _I gave her to him, and now I'm taking him away. The world is a cruel, cruel place_.

He knocked.

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Eloise threw back her head and laughed as Molly finished her story about the time her brother decided he was going to be a fireman and inadvertantly set the garden shed ablaze. Even Sherlock had a small smile for the anecdote, which he'd undoubtedly heard before. The pair of them had taken to visiting Eloise before their evenings together. The two young doctors had become fast friends in the short time they'd known each other and she could tell that Sherlock was secretly very glad. "I wish you could have been there, El, you would have slapped him silly!"

"I can promise she wouldn't have let him off that easily," Sherlock added.

There was more laughter as Eloise gathered all of their empty cups and carried them to the kitchen. She smiled to herself, amazed at how the couple in her sitting room had changed her life so quickly and irrevocably.

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"Greg, this thing is hopeless and I'm going to strangle myself. A little help?" Derek held up the ends of his bowtie with the most pitiful expression on his face. Gregory couldn't help but laugh as he quickly fixed his best friend's tie. "Can I count on you to walk yourself down the aisle without tripping over your own feet?" he said with a grin as he sat down to put on his dress shoes.

He was answered with silence. "Derek?" Gregory turned back to face the other man.

He was staring at the wall, hand frozen on the cuff link he had been adjusting. "Derek?"

"I'm sorry. I just had the strangest feeling."

"Like what?"

"It's nothing, really," he said, still staring into space. Suddenly his eyes focused on Gregory's. "Promise me you'll take care of her if something ever happens to me. Promise me."

"You know you don't even have to ask. Seriously, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just an odd feeling, that's all."

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"You can't be serious. I really don't think I should."

Molly set her jaw, determined to make Eloise bend to her will. "Mary's told me she has a table near the edge of the garden that no one's seated at yet and she asked if I wanted to bring somebody. I think you'd have fun, meet some people. You spend far too much time alone in this flat!"

"I'm on vacation!" she protested, "Of course I spend far too much time alone in this flat!"

"Sherlock, tell her she should come."

He raised an eyebrow as he considered the little pathologist. "She doesn't seem to want to go," he offered.

"Whose side are you on?"

"There are sides?" he questioned, leaning forward and steepling his hands beneath his chin. Apparantly, this opened up an entirely new line of thought for the detective, and Molly sighed, giving up on any help from his corner.

"The point is, El, you can't hide in here until your next dig. I simply won't have it. I promise you'll have a good time and you can leave whenever you want. Please?"

The Egyptologist sighed. " I just don't want to be an imposition. I mean, wouldn't it be inconvenient? They're getting married in two days, for heaven's sake!"

Molly opened her mouth to protest again when Sherlock rejoined the conversation. "I believe you ought to attend, Eloise."

Both women turned to blink at him.

"While I myself am hesitant to spend the entire evening being elbowed in the ribs and hissed at to 'be nice' to John and Mary's more... challenged acquaintances, I do think it will be an overall pleasant experience. Molly has a valid point about your reclusive tendencies, and I don't think it's very fair that you have only the two of us here in London. After all, I'm a terrible friend and while Molly is a fantastic one, how can we possibly be enough?"

They blinked again. Molly shook her head a little before turning back to Eloise. "Sherlock... is-is right. Now that even HE says so, how can you say no?"

Eloise threw up her hands in surrender. "Fine! Fine fine fine! But I don't have anything at all suitable for a wedding so you have to come shopping with me tomorrow since I don't know where anything is now and I think I'm going to have an anxiety attack and if I embarass myself because I haven't interacted with other humans at a wedding in a decade on your heads be it Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper and I think I'm going to pass out!" she said without taking a breath.

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Gregory took several deep breaths as he waited in the hall outside the sanctuary. He checked his watch and paced a few steps, feeling incredibly anxious. He was about to poke his head around the door to the women's hall when it opened and there she was. Her cheeks were already rosy and the smile on her face was as close to an angel's as Gregory had ever seen. "Hey, little sis," he said, tears already gathering in the corners of his eyes, "Ready to go become Mrs. McAvoy?"

She laughed and wrapped a gloved hand around the arm he offered. "Only if you make sure I don't fall on the way."

He grinned, and leaned down to press a kiss to her temple before the doors opened. "I'll catch you if you do."

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Sherlock and Molly didn't stay much longer after convincing Eloise to come to the wedding. But she was grateful since she knew she needed time to herself to make sure she was really ready to go to a wedding and mingle with a large volume of strangers. She set another kettle before going to run her evening bath. Orestes took his usual place on the edge of the tub, tail swishing into the hot water.

Eloise ran her fingers along the spines of her books on the shelf in her bedroom. She kept her favorites on this shelf, her oldest and most precious. Her eyes landed on a paperback copy of Treasure Island. The spine was cracked in several places and both of the covers were held on with tape, but she loved it all the more. Gregory had given it to her, when they were high-schoolers. With a boyish wink he'd told her it was Derek's favorite book. She smiled to herself as she clutched it to her chest and walked into the bathroom with her tea. _My incorrigible boys._

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_How can I feel frozen when it's so ghastly hot?_ Gregory thought as he laid on the dusty earth. He could feel his life being pumped furiously out of the two ragged bullet holes in his abdomen by his overburdened heart. His sight flickered on and off as he struggled to focus on something, anything. He heard more gunfire and shouting and then it was silent and there were footsteps running towards him, calling his name. There were hands grasping his shoulders, shaking him, wrapping something around his wound in vain. He tried to tell them to stop, to tell them there was no use but his tongue was thick and heavy. In his head, he couldn't stop apologizing to Derek, to Eloise, even as he prayed that there would be someone else to watch over her. His eyelids flickered as the most lovely sensation of sinking overcame him, and he slept, whispering their names to the last.

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The next morning, Eloise rose early, put on a nice dress, and braided her long hair simply down her back. She stopped at a florist's, and picked up two bouquets, one of red roses and one of yellow, held together by ribbons of the same colours. She was at the station just in time to catch the 7:13 to Bolton, Manchester, and rode in the very last car to be alone with her thoughts.

The train deposited her in her old hometown and she hired a cab to take her to the small cemetery and wait. The sun shone gently and a soft breeze kissed her skin as she wove through the grave stones, fingers brushing their tops like the shoulders of old friends. Near the very back stood two marble soldiers' crosses, side by side. She sat down between them, tucking her legs beneath her, and laid her bouquets on the earth. "Here we are again, boys. It's that day again. Happy belated anniversary, Derek, and happy birthday, Gregory." And she leaned against her husband's cross, and sang her boys a lullaby.

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Gregory Philmore looked curiously around the home classroom he'd been assigned that year. He was very excited that his best friend Derek was just across the room, and very upset that Chelsea Windham was just in the next row, making the most awful faces at him. Meanwhile, Derek was sitting next to a very quiet girl with two long brown braids and a sad face. _She must be new_, he thought. It was their second year of upper school, so Gregory knew just about everyone in their year.

The girl turned to look at him with that sad face. She gave him a small smile and a wave of her hand. Gregory copied the action, and she turned to face the teacher again. _She looks like she hasn't a friend in the world._

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She only allowed herself an hour at the cemetery. She promised them she wouldn't wallow too long, not while life had taken her by the hand once more. Eloise could hear them both now, telling her she should stop conversing with the deceased and go enjoy the living. With a last look at their graves, she stepped back into the cab and promised them she'd be back next year, hopefully with better news.

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The children were finally allowed outside for their recess hour. Gregory kicked some dirt at that awful Chelsea Windham, and passed a ball around with Derek.

"Who's that girl next to you in class, Derek?" Gregory said as he noticed her sitting alone underneath a tree.

Derek began stuttering. "I-I didn't ask her n-name. I was t-too shy."

"I think you meant too chicken!"

"Hey!" Derek threw the ball and smacked Gregory in the forehead.

"Well, I'm going to go ask if she wants to pass the ball with us!"

Gregory ran to the tree and sat down beside her. She was making a chain out of some wildflowers. "Hello. I'm Gregory. You're new here, aren't you?"

She nodded and kept making the flower chain, not looking at him.

"What's your name?"

She looked up at him with that sad face. She was quiet for another moment or so before she said, "I'm Eloise."

"It's very nice to meet you, Eloise. Would you like to come pass the ball with me and my friend?"

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It had begun to sprinkle as the train rolled back into London, and once she returned to Baker Street, she found Molly waiting in her car, hiding from the rain. The pathologist waved at Eloise, gesturing for her to hurry.

"I was beginning to think you'd decided not to come! I sent you about a million texts," Molly said as she got into the car, smoothing her dress.

"Did you? I didn't hear them. I must have just drifted off, I suppose."

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**Author's Note: I know that this was a very Eloise-centric chapter, but the idea for it was rattling around in my brain and wouldn't let me be. However, I can promise that the next chapter will be almost exclusively Sherlock and Molly ;) Please enjoy, my dears! And as always, so many thanks for reading.**

**Much love and thanks,  
-The Queen of Fragile Hearts.**


	10. Chapter 10: A Bump in the Road

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's _Sherlock_, much as I wish I did :)**

**Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream or a memory.**

**Shout-outs: First and foremost, hugs and gush to pruplup4, who is now functioning as my sort of editor and has abundant springs of patience! Exultation and groveling to my amazing followers, including my newest: LittleBabbit! Thanks again to my fantastic reviewers, particularly my dear Angela Robin, Anatomydoc (always!), LittleBabbit, Irene90, pruplup4 (you get two shouts for being editor AND reviewing :)), Renaissancebooklover108, and SammyKatz! Finally, I always have to laud every single person who's read Five Doctors, and brought it to an absolutely unbelievable 2,800 views! A puppy and a kiss on the cheek for every one of you :)**

**Summary: In which it is the night before John and Mary's wedding and some things happen but I'm so running out of ways to be vague and mysterious in these summaries soooo yeah :)**

**Please enjoy!**

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Chapter Ten: A Bump in the Road

Molly frowned as she noticed a small tear in her sleeve while she walked up the stairs to her little flat. _I guess I'll just have to sew it up sometime next weekend. I'll be far too busy Sunday, taking care of wedding clean-up. Oh, and I must remember that Stamford told me to pick up an extra shift next week since he gave me today off for last-minute planning. Did I remember to feed Toby? I hope Eloise lets me do her hair tomorrow. Where ARE my keys?_

She reached her door, still thinking absently about big things and little things and everything in between as she dug for her keys, but her hand froze in her bag. The door jamb was splintered and she pushed the door the rest of the way open.

Molly's bag slipped from her hands. There was a sort of roaring sound in her ears as she took in the ruin of her home. They'd knocked every picture off her walls. Her books and medical journals were scattered all over the floor, some trampled and dirtied. Her windows were broken and Toby was still just lazing on the sill amidst the glass.

Her feet carried her forward. It was the strangest feeling to know that only moments before she was going about her life, and now that normalcy was just interrupted. Though it wasn't anything life-altering, she still felt disjointed, somehow. Like she'd been dancing and suddenly stumbled, and now Molly was lying on the floor, trying to remember the next steps.

She wandered to her bedroom. It was just as disheveled as the rest of the place, if not more. She sat on her bed and stared at the spot on her vanity where her mother's jewellery chest had been. She slowly turned to her nightstand. She pulled out the drawer and lifted the false bottom, unspeakably glad that the vandals hadn't found it.

Molly remembered discovering it in an antique store with her oldest brother. He'd made such fun of her for being so fascinated with the little table and its secret that she just had to buy it. The memory echoed through her brain as she numbly sifted through the drawer's contents.

Her sketchbook. Her diplomas. The bow she wore in her hair at that awful Christmas party. An antique fountain pen that had belonged to her grandmother. Ticket stubs from movies, concerts. A picture of her whole family: Mama, Daddy, her brothers and sisters and their hateful old Siamese cat. Little things. Bits and bobs. Odds and ends. Bric-a-brac, folderol, knick-knacks.

Pieces of her.

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Sherlock frowned as he stared at his phone. He'd sent Molly a text at exactly 5:30, which was when she'd told him she'd arrive home from her day with Eloise and Mary. It was 5:37. Molly never took so much time to respond.

A peculiar feeling niggled at the back of his mind. After a moment of two of processing, he decided it was worry. Sherlock was proud that he'd identified the feeling so quickly, but confused as to why a delayed text response should cause him to feel it. He left his chair to put on his coat and scarf and quickly sent texts to John and Eloise. 5:39.

_Why am I worried_? he thought as he went down the stairs, shouting at Mrs. Hudson that he was going to Molly's and he'd be back shortly. _Why am I worried? _5:41.

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The cab dropped him off on Molly's street, and he glanced up at her floor immediately. _Her windows are broken_, he thought as he was running into her building and up the stairs and through her open front door. He stumbled over her purse, left abandoned in the entry hall. _Worry is a terrifying feeling._

"Molly!" he shouted, eyes taking in the disarray of her flat. It took him all of ten seconds to see how long ago it had transpired, all that had been taken, who had done it and why, where they were. There wasn't a response from the little pathologist, and Sherlock found that the worry had evolved into fear. _Now you're being illogical. Obviously she was not here when it happened and the perpetrators have been gone for... an hour and a half. What do you fear?_

He found her on her bed, staring blankly at the wall, a drawer filled with miscellany beside her. Sherlock was suddenly kneeling before her and taking her hands.

"Molly?" he said quietly, "Molly?"

Her eyes found his face, focusing and unfocusing.

"Where have you gone, Molly?"

Somehow his voice called her back, and she blinked while returning his grasp on her hands. "They took my mother's jewellery box."

"I know. Why don't you come home with me and we'll get it all sorted out?"

She nodded vacantly and allowed him to lead her out of her ravaged flat and into a cab. He watched her intently as she stared out the window, returning to him little by little, and they were silent all the way to Baker Street.

He handed her into the care of Mrs. Hudson, who clucked and fussed and led Molly up the stairs to 221B. Sherlock found himself relieved to hear her start insisting she was fine as he waited downstairs for Eloise. The Egyptologist hurried into the building, and he quickly explained it all before she gave a little shriek and ran up to his flat. John arrived shortly after with a quizzical look on his face before also heading up the stairs.

Satisfied that his pathologist would be well-tended, he phoned Lestrade. "I'm headed to the address I'm about to text you. Just be there, no questions asked. If not on my word, then for Molly's sake."

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Thirty minutes later, Sherlock watched as an officer herded three teenagers into the back of a squad car. Another pair of officers was loading Molly's things into one car and other various and sundry stolen items into another. The warehouse in which the teens had been squatting was filled with them.

They were addicts, and they had been going through the frenzy of withdrawal when they had thrown Molly's books on the floor and broken her windows while they searched her flat for anything of value that could be sold and the money used to buy more, more, more of whatever substance they could find. _But the 'more' never turns out to be enough, and they'll do it again and again until they're past help,_ he thought as he carefully lifted a small, delicately-carved wooden box from a pile of Molly's things. The words 'Margaret Elizabeth Fairchild' were scrolled across the lid. Sherlock slipped it into one of his pockets. The Yard would hold Molly's other items until she could come collect them, but he knew she needed to have this tonight.

He walked over to Lestrade, who was talking to Sgt. Donovan. She beat a hasty retreat when she saw him coming, and the detective couldn't help but smirk.

"I'll let you have that one, since I know belittling and terrifying people is like breathing to you, but try not to scare her off for good. While I don't approve of some of her choices, Sally's a good officer."

Sherlock's lip twitched as he tried not to sneer at the comment. "I was just coming over to say I'm off. There's another matter to which I must attend."

The older man nodded, but before Sherlock could turn to leave, Lestrade stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. The DI looked him square in the eyes for several long moments, obviously trying to figure out something. He pressed his lips together and furrowed his brow. "Just... Be careful with her, Sherlock," he said with a tired sigh, before releasing him and walking away.

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After being asked for the one hundred millionth time if she was sure she didn't want a cuppa, Molly relented and Mrs. Hudson bustled away to the kitchen, happy to have something to do. Beside her on the couch, Eloise snickered at Molly's look of frustration.

What Molly really wanted was to be left alone to think but she suspected that wouldn't be happening any time soon. John was in his preferred chair, looking like he wanted to say something but had no idea what. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, before deciding on, "Mary's just texted. She's meeting Sherlock at your flat in a few to get you some things. I guess you're staying with us tonight?"

Molly nodded, smiling at the concern in the army doctor's voice. John seemed to be more shaken up about the whole thing than she was. She was touched by the sheer amount of people that cared about her, that were currently focused completely on her. She'd been very alone for quite some time, and when she wasn't alone, she was bandaging some new atrocious wound of Sherlock's and forcing some food into him, or watching John cry into a cup of coffee and having to lie and say she missed him too, or turning down a date because Sherlock could turn up at any minute of the day.

Suddenly, she was being cared for. And as Eloise squeezed her hand, and Mrs. Hudson brought her that cup of tea, and John continued trying to reassure her, she found that she was unbelievably happy. She laughed at the irony of the situation, and three pairs of very concerned eyes turned to meet hers. That only made her laugh harder, so much so that tears began to pour down her cheeks. John was out of his chair and asking her what was wrong, and Eloise was shaking her shoulder saying it was all right, and Mrs. Hudson was making more tea, and Molly was very, very happy, and she could not stop smiling.

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Sherlock and Mary walked around Molly's little flat, collecting things that they each deemed necessary. Mary dug a suitcase out of the closet and started filling it with pratical things: clothing, toiletries, her bridesmaid ensemble. She herded Toby into a carrier and gathered his food and bowls.

In a very strange turn of events, Sherlock found himself collecting sentimental items for her. He carefully packed the contents of the drawer with which he'd found her sitting, and retrieved her beloved copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ from where it had been carelessly thrown. He found her favorite jumper, a stuffed bunny she'd kept since childhood, and her diary, which he was very careful not to disturb. He even went so far as to collect some of her favorite banal romance films and novels.

As he arranged said items in her favorite backpack, he couldn't seem to stop asking himself why he had deemed it so important to bring her these things. When he came to the answer a few seconds later, he stopped moving entirely, frozen by the force of the revelation.

_Molly is upset. I am upset because Molly is upset, and I am bringing her these items of SENTIMENT in an attempt to make her not-upset._

He was about to throw himself completely into exploring the thought when Mary reentered Molly's bedroom.

"Oi! Let's go, Brain Boy!"

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Mary was excruciatingly frustrated with Sherlock. The entire cab ride back to Baker Street, he sat and stared out the window without saying one word. She was just astonished that her best friend and his... whatever Molly was to him had just been traumatized and he had absolutely nothing to say about it. His silence was so maddening that finally, she turned to him and just let him have it.

"Sherlock Holmes, what in God's name is the matter with you? I know you're all Mr. Mysterious, I-don't-have-feelings, but could you at least pretend to care about what just happened? Molly is the best damn thing that is ever going to happen to you and you'd better start acting like it or so help me!"

And then she was sobbing and blubbering about how she had been so scared and she was sorry she'd said those things but how could he be so heartless and what was wrong with him. He looked very startled, blinking at her in the dim cab interior. After a minute or so of silence, he placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. Mary immediately stopped crying and looked at the detective in disbelief.

"I sense that this outburst is misdirected terror at the situation and worry for your friend, fueled by your distrust of me and my intentions, which you are using as a convenient outlet for your emotions. While I know that I have every potential to emotionally injure Molly and therefore your worry is completely justified, I want to make it clear to you that I honestly and truthfully care for Molly Hooper and I am trying very hard not to, as John would say, 'cock it up'. Though I am not vocal about my... feelings on the matter, it does not mean that I am not experiencing them. I do wish you would allow me the benefit of the doubt, and I am... sorry that you are upset. Please stop crying. It's unnerving."

As soon as he finished speaking, he removed his hand and turned back to the window, shifting uncomfortably on the seat next to her. She wiped some mascara off her cheek and sniffled. "Thank you, Sherlock. And I'm sorry, too."

He hummed a little in response, and they arrived at Baker Street shortly after.

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"Molls, we're back!" John heard his fiancee shout from downstairs. He rushed to open the door to 221B, grateful to have some kind of distraction. He was puzzled to see Sherlock wearing a pink backpack, and carrying a suitcase and a cat carrier.

"Um, cute backpack. I love that colour on you," he said, trying to make sense of the sight. Sherlock ignored him and placed the stuff on the kitchen table.

"I tried to tell him she was going to stay with us, but he insisted that she may as well stay here since she's already here," Mary said, amusement in her voice as she stood in the doorway. John couldn't help but grin as he realized that Sherlock was being protective, presumably without realizing it. John winked conspiratorially at Mary before turning to everyone else to say, "I suppose he's right, and we should all clear out of here. Molly's had a tough day and we've all got a rather busy one tomorrow."

One by one they each pressed a kiss to Molly's cheek and went their seperate ways. John was the last to go, and as he pulled the door to 221B closed, he leaned over to Sherlock and hissed, "Behave!"

The look on his face was absolutely priceless as he tried to understand what John meant.

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**Author's Note: I don't really have anything to say tonight, except that I start school tomorrow and I expect that it will change the rate at which I post chapters. I apologize in advance for my inevitable laziness. Hugs and gush to all my readers! Let me know what you think!**

**Much love and thanks,  
-The Queen of Fragile Hearts.**

**P.S. To those of you who might have been expecting something naughty from the next chapter, I might as well crush your dreams now :)**


	11. Chapter 11: She Walks in Beauty

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's ****_Sherlock_****, much as I wish I did :) Neither do I own Lord Byron's poem, "She Walks in Beauty, Like the Night."**

**Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream or a memory. To those who noticed a bit of a parallel between the indomitable Donna Noble and Miss Mary Morstan, yes, that was a little bit intentional :) Because every genius needs someone to take them down a peg now and then.**

**Shout-outs: First and foremost, a triple scoop cone for my editor, pruplup4, whose patience is limitless! A happy dance for all of my followers, including my newest: The Adventures Of, Crying Raven, short-skirtbluescarf, Icemask511, and KTrevo! Next, balloons for everyone who's reviewed my story, and an basket of kittens for those who reviewed last chapter: Anatomydoc (hugs and gush), bhfirewife, Crying Raven (you'd better release that breath! I can't get a chapter up that quick!), Irene90, Renaissancebooklover108, pruplup4 (two for you, pruplup4, you go pruplup4!), SammyKatz, Icemask511, and KTrevo! Finally, a great big marching band parade for everyone who's checked out Five Doctors, bringing it to a fabulous 3,400 views! Thanks so much to all of you!**

**Summary: In which Molly stays the night at 221B.**

**Warning: There is a reference to Sherlock's implied addict past. I hope it doesn't make anyone uncomfortable.**

**Please enjoy!**

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Chapter Eleven: She Walks in Beauty

Sherlock sat on the coffee table, hands steepled as usual beneath his chin as he carefully considered the woman who slept on his couch. He had tried to insist that she take his bed, since he obviously wasn't going to use it, but she just waved him off, saying she was perfectly happy where she was. And she was there because he had worried, and that worry had irrationally convinced him that she was safest with him.

After everyone had left, Sherlock had taken a very large step outside the realm of his comfort and asked if she wanted to talk about the events of the evening. She smiled, and said, "You needn't worry about that, Sherlock. I'm okay now, really. Why don't you play for me?" She knew that he really didn't know where to go from asking, and he was very grateful that she simply requested he do something with which he was much more comfortable. He played for her while she sat staring out the window and absently fussing with a few strands of her hair. He watched as she slowly became drowsy, and ceased his bowing as soon as her head lolled back against the cushions.

And now here he was, thinking about her as if he hadn't been doing just that for the past month and a half. _How could I think of anything else while she's actually here? _The Molly on his couch was so much more than the Molly in his mind palace.

Sherlock knew every inch of Molly's face, had carefully memorized it after the Fall while she took care of him. But that didn't stop his eyes from retracing her every feature, highlighted by the moon as it whispered sweet verses over her skin.

He remembered remarking a time or two that Molly's lips were too thin. He supposed that was some sort of attempt at making her hate him. Hate was a much more familiar emotion to Sherlock. It was one he had always recognized without difficulty because that was all he could feel in his very earliest days, in the days before he ceased feeling anything at all. And he could not understand Molly Hooper because she did not hate him, and of all people she had the best reasons. Her mouth curved in a sleepy smile before her face slackened once more. _No, Molly's lips are not too thin. Molly's lips are perfect._

Her eyelashes ghosted over her cheekbones as her eyes began to move beneath her lids. Her mouse-brown hair framed her face in soft waves and her pale skin shone in the moonlight. As if he was Pygmalion and she his very own Galatea, his eyes carved the graceful line of her jaw and the slim column of her neck, and painstakingly sculpted the delicate bones of the hand that draped over the arm of the couch.

He knew, suddenly, why he had so desperately wanted her to hate him. Hate is not the opposite of love; it is merely love's warped and twisted admirer, languishing madly after its fair sweetheart. Hate still cares, however, just more violently and haphazardly than love. No, the opposite of love is apathy, the lack of caring whatsoever, and apathy used to reside in the left hand side of Sherlock's chest cavity. That apathy drew back in revulsion at the affection Molly bore him, and sought to change it to something more manageable, more akin to the chaos that dwelt in his mind. At least he could understand hate. Love proved to be a much more difficult subject. He had still wanted her to care, he had just wanted it in a way he deserved.

There was one evening, years ago, before John, that Sherlock's mind had crashed and boiled like an ocean at tempest and his chest ached with the swelling of a shifting turmoil, incapacitating him. He had wanted nothing more than to stop everything, stop his physical and mental unrest by removing himself from himself. He had intended to seek out a familiar alley, dark with the stains of the past, but his feet had instead carried him to Bart's, to Molly's morgue. She had looked up from her paperwork with the small smile she reserved only for him. She searched his eyes and could see that there was something not right with him, that there was a spark dangerously close to the powder keg. That was when she wheeled out a body she suspected to be a homicide and asked him what he thought. And just like that, the aching went away and his ragged thoughts sharpened back into a fine point.

That was the first time she'd saved his life, and just like everything she did, she had done it without his notice or permission. _Why doesn't she hate me? She has every right and reason to hate me and I would not blame her if she did. There is something within her more powerful than anyone has ever realized._

Sherlock removed his hands from beneath his chin. While moving to rest on the coffee table, his left hand disturbed something. He caught the item noiselessly before it fell, and held it up to the light. It was Molly's sketchbook. He had not been surprised to discover it earlier that evening, in her flat; obviously he knew she could draw. There was no mistaking it in her nimble hands. But he had never seen any of her work, and curiosity drove him to open the book.

There were pages and pages of amazingly rendered parts of the human body. Her line of work and excellent attention to detail created such realism on the paper out of only the strokes of her pencil. She also drew people she knew and cared for. Sherlock could recognize members of her family, colleagues, friends of hers that he'd met in passing, strange people by which she must have been intrigued. And suddenly, he was staring at his own face. This drawing in particular had something the others didn't, something Sherlock could not name. He closed his eyes, practically able to see her delicate hand shading his features on the blank page, pulling him simply from her memory.

There were only a few more pages in the book, but all of them bore his image. She had drawn him frowning, smirking, laughing, thinking, and everything in between. He closed the sketchbook quietly. _She drew me with love._

He replaced the book on the table, realizing that he had crossed what Eloise would call a boundary, that he had delved into something very personal of Molly's which he should not have seen without her assent. Yet he found he did not care as his eyes returned to her somnolent form. He was beginning to understand the way in which he and Molly fit together, and her drawings had shown him the pattern.

Molly began tossing and turning on the couch, trying to find a comfortable spot. _There's no sense in her being sore during her best friend's wedding tomorrow, _he thought as he lifted her fragile body and carried her to his bed. He also found that he needed some distance from her. Just a little, because he could not think clearly while he sat before her, breathing in her scent and listening to the gentle whisper of her breath, but not too much distance or that foreign sense of worry might return.

Sherlock made sure that she was warm enough, then turned to leave her, but before he could go, a small hand wrapped around his own. He froze. "Don't go," she said, her voice thick with sleep, "Stay with me, like you used to."

He swallowed. _How could she have known?_ he thought as she shifted over and and he laid down beside her. Half-awake, she curled herself against him, placing her head on his chest and her hand over his heart. _Over her heart_. "How could I not have known, Sherlock?" she mumbled before tumbling back into a heavy sleep.

Slowly, his arms curved around her slight frame, cradling her so carefully, as if at any moment, at any wrong move, she might fade away into ephemera. His thoughts drifted away to the more sentimental corners of his mind palace, to the places that Molly had claimed when her room had become too small, and as his breath and heartbeat slowed, he closed his eyes and read himself a poem he had undoubtedly kept for her.

_She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that's best of dark and bright, meet in her aspect and her eyes..._

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**Author's Note: Okay, I know that was fluffy. I know. There was probably enough saccharine infused drivel to fill a cotton candy spinner. But I hope you liked it :) I'll do my best to post often enough, but like I said, I am back in school now and will be undoubtedly busier. Or lazier. Anyway. Let me know what you think! Adoration as always, my darlings.**

**Much love and thanks,  
-The Queen of Fragile Hearts.**

**P.S. If Sherlock seems at all OOC in this chapter, I urge you to remember that it is entirely from his point of view, and most of the chapter happens within his mind. That gave me a little more artistic license, since his mind is a much a mystery as the man himself.**


	12. Chapter 12: Forever Isn't Long Enough

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's ****_Sherlock_****, much as I wish I did :)**

**Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream or a memory.**

**Shout-outs: Must always begin with my sassy editor, without whom I would be lost. A basket of kittens to pruplup4, whose insight is invaluable! I cannot get over how kind and encouraging every is on FF! Thanks and gratitude to all of my readers, including my newest: yeahimgonnariskit, musicscorelover, Silkenslay, rosyronni, PattyMarq, and valeriejoanmorgan! All of you guys rock for sticking with me! Next, reviewers! My hopes and dreams are composed of every review that has been posted on this story, and last chapter saw some very sweet things from AngelofMusicHidenoLonger, KTrevo, Renaissancebooklover108, LittleBabbit, short-skirtbluescarf, my dearest Irene90, Icemask511, SammyKatz, the fantastic Anatomydoc, Crying Raven, valeriejoanmorgan, and as always, pruplup4! Finally, (and I wish I could show you the little happy dance that goes on in my brain every time I see the number go up) cupcakes and lollipops for everyone who has read or even looked at Five Doctors, bringing it to an amazing 4000 views! I am just blown away by the fantastic response to my story!**

**Summary: Again, in which a lot of things happen and I don't have a clever way to say it, so sorry 'bout cha :)**

**Please enjoy!**

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Chapter Twelve: Forever Isn't Long Enough

Molly awoke wrapped in someone's arms. She dimly felt that perhaps she should be more alarmed, since she was still in an early stage of consciousness and therefore didn't remember where she was or who was holding her, but all she felt was the loveliest sense of calm. She sighed contentedly and looked up to see the person against whom her head had rested through the night. She blinked a few times in surprise. _Sherlock? What on earth?_

Slowly, slowly she began to remember. She'd fallen asleep listening to Sherlock's violin, thinking about all of the things he'd rescued from her flat. Molly had been slightly aware of the feeling of strong arms lifting her from the couch and placing her in a bed, and in her dreamlike state, she couldn't bear for him to leave. She had vaguely remembered the feeling of lying beside him on the nights that he'd come to see her, and simply had to know if that was real or a wishful imagining on her part.

Molly studied his face as he slept. It was a rare phenomenon that she had never observed and she took her time, memorizing just how he looked. Sleep afforded him a sort of angelic quality. He appeared so ethereal and otherworldly with his face relaxed and peaceful, those dark curls resting on his alabaster skin. Suddenly, those pelagic, mercurial eyes were staring back into hers.

"Hello," she said. He just stared at her, unblinking and unmoving. Her mouth curved slowly into a smile as she stared right back.

Her hand still covered his heart. Molly could feel it fluttering beneath her palm, and curiously enough she felt it quicken. She tilted her head to the side, watching in amazement as his eyes darkened and shifted.

His brow furrowed as he looked at her. "I've been searching for a word," he said, that smooth, dark voice of his reverberating throughout her chest, "I can't find it, it seems. Perhaps you could help me?"

"What's this word like, then?"

"It's extraordinary and inexplicable, selcouth and exquisite, agonizing and enchanting, strange and beautiful and painful, all at the same time. I have all of those words. They're boring and plain. But there's one that contains them all that I simply cannot find. Do you know it, Molly?"

"I know exactly the word you're looking for," she answered as she extricated herself from him and left the bed, "But I think you can find it if I just show you how. Sherlock, you're breathing, your heart is beating, blood is coursing through your veins, you're thinking and feeling. What does that make you?"

He simply looked at her, eyes desperate to sooth the ache that the unfound word caused in his mind and heart. She leaned in the doorframe. "You exist, Sherlock. You're alive. You're human. There. I've given you three words, and you've only asked for one."

The corner of his mouth quirked up, eyes aglow with a sort of mirth as he steepled his hands beneath his chin. There was silence between the two for a while as they considered each other. For once, she did not feel small or insignificant or stupid under the scrutiny of his gaze, so intent was his study. Quietly, without a stutter or a stumble, she said, "Surely, you must know I love you?"

He only nodded. He didn't say or do anything, just kept staring at her like she was the most fascinating puzzle in the world. _You, Molly Hooper, fascinating? The very idea. _She gave him a small smile as she rested her head against the door frame. "How about dinner tonight? See, I know this bloke who's marrying this girl and there's supposed to be some food in it for everyone who shows up. You'll wear your best suit and I'll wear my best dress, and we'll have a laugh." She winked at him and left his room to go and get ready to meet Eloise.

"Save me a dance then, Doctor Hooper."

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"Molls, are you really sure about this dress?" Eloise called from her bedroom, "I mean, I know we said it was okay yesterday, but that was before I put it on and now I'm feeling a little... exposed."

"Quit your fussing, El, and let's see it. I'm sure it's fine. Come on out here."

The Egyptologist nervously stepped into the sitting room, fussing with the dress. Molly could tell that she was out of her comfort zone, that she hadn't had to wear something like this in quite sometime. She also saw that the other woman was struggling with something Molly herself had battled in another time. Eloise looked uncomfortable in her own skin, like she couldn't bear for the eyes of others to touch her form.

The dress was a lovely midnight blue that shimmered faintly in the afternoon light and nicely complemented her bronzed skin. It was strapless, with a sweetheart bodice that went on to cinch at her waist. From there it fell into a full circle skirt that ended a few inches below her knees. She had a gauzy, silver wrap looped around her arms, which she self-consciously pulled up to her shoulders and clutched tightly over her chest.

"El, you look lovely. The dress is gorgeous, I promise. Now let's go pick some jewellery and shoes and I'll do your hair, yeah?"

She still looked so uncertain as she shifted back and forth. "Molly, do you ever feel... I mean, do you sometimes think that..."

The pathologist put down the papers she was reading and crossed the room. She pulled Eloise's arms away from her chest and pushed the shawl back down to her elbows. "I did, some time ago. But I don't anymore. Because I care more about how I feel than what others think of me. You shouldn't tear yourself up inside over stranger's opinions."

"Oh! Oh, you are spot on there. But... I-It's not entirely th-that, although you're very right. I... I just haven't worn anything like this since... since Derek died. I suppose I'm just not used to being a single woman without the protection of a wedding band."

"Hey. It's all right." Molly brushed some hair out of the other woman's eyes. "Let's go do your hair, shall we?"

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Both women arrived in the church's private hall promptly to help Mary begin getting ready. She was a mess of nerves, rushing about and fussing with this and that. Molly managed to catch her by the arm and calm her down. "Mary. Mary? Mary! Go and shower, okay? Eloise and I will get everything sorted out. You're going to hurt yourself if you don't calm down and let us handle it."

Mary nodded agreement, though she still looked a little crazed, and wandered off. "I've never seen her like this. Sure, she gets a little high strung, now and again, but wow," Molly said as she began finding Mary's makeup and jewellery. Eloise found a place on the chaise in the corner, and smiled ruefully at Molly.

"I've been there before. The very idea of becoming some new person once you say "I do" is a very frightening prospect. And though you know it's worth it and you know he's feeling the same way, you can't seem to stop yourself from catching butterflies in your stomach."

Molly turned to the Egyptologist and smiled back. "You loved him very much, didn't you?"

"Oh, desperately. I had since I was thirteen years old. I still do, of course. But just to myself, when I'm alone. He wouldn't want me to live in the past, though, to remain wedded to a ghost. He was extraordinary, my Derek, and I like to think that if I do meet somebody new, it'll be because he had a hand in it. He and Gregory were always such troublemakers."

She laughed as she left the chaise and removed Mary's dress from the armoir to hang it on the rack by the mirror. "I hope you know I don't regret marrying him. I knew I was marrying a soldier and I did it anyway. It's hard to regret loving someone. In fact, I recommend that you never do it, Molls."

The pathologist stopped moving and stared at herself in the mirror. "D'you know, El, I told him I loved him. He knew, of course, I knew he would. And he didn't say even one terrible thing. He just looked at me."

Eloise took Molly's hands. "You of all people must remember who he is, how he thinks. You've been so tough, Molls. Try to steady on a little longer. He's almost there, has almost realized how much he cares about you. I know it's been a long road, but once you have him, you'll never lose him. That's just the kind of man Sherlock Holmes is."

The two women exchanged smiles before the frazzled bride burst into the dressing room. "I can't find my shampoo! Where is my shampoo?"

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Michael returned from his run, drenched in sweat but feeling alive, at least. He checked the clock on the mantle. It seemed he hadn't wasted enough time, and now he was back in his flat with nothing to do until the wedding reception. He'd told Mary that he wouldn't feel right, being at the ceremony, and thankfully she'd understood. He showered and shaved and made himself a cuppa and put on some crap telly, which he couldn't focus on.

He kept seeing Seraphine in her wedding dress, smiling at him, all rosy-cheeked and teary-eyed. That was the real reason he didn't want to go to the ceremony. Certainly he felt it was a more private affair for closer friends and family, but really he just wasn't sure he'd be able to bear it. The memory of his own wife walking towards him all draped in white was still too painfully fresh for him to witness a reenactment of it, not just yet anyway.

He stared out the window for an hour as his teacup cooled in his hands, forgotten, and the telly droned in the backround. He danced with her in the rain, slipped an engagement ring onto her delicate finger, strolled with her beside the banks of the Seine, brought her roses on their anniversary, carried her into their new home for the very first time, all while another hour swirled past him, unnoticed. The fading light of day returned him to the present and reminded him that he had somewhere to be. He smiled to himself, eyes closed, and allowed himself another minute to bask in the warmth of her memory.

Every day, he tried very hard to remind himself that she would have been so mad at him for wallowing in his grief. He could practically hear what she would say:_ "I'll not have you wasting your life pining over me, Michael Prescott, I'll not have it! Now go out there and live!"_

He dumped the cold tea down the drain and went to put on his suit, telling himself over and over that she would have smacked him for taking so long to return to the world, to learn how to be happy again.

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Sherlock sat already dressed and ready in the corner of the dressing room. He watched as John anxiously did and redid his tie, and fussed with his cufflinks, and straightened his jacket, and did a million other boring little things. Sherlock wondered why he should be so nervous. There was nothing inherently frightful about the process of getting married.

Lestrade poked his head around the door to say, "Three minutes, guys," before returning to the hallway. Finally, Sherlock couldn't handle John's fidgeting anymore.

"What on earth has got your chains so rattled, John?"

He turned to look at the detective, frowning as he crossed his arms over his chest. "What do mean by that?"

"You're only getting married. I fail to see why that should unsettle you in this manner when you've faced down men with guns and murderous intents."

John looked at him with what could only be described as disbelief and annoyance. "All right, Sherlock, I know that feelings and all that is pretty new to you, but surely you'd understand why this is a big deal?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Obviously not," he replied, voice dripping with disdain.

"Yes, I do suppose this is a bit mundane for you, so why don't I enlighten you? Sherlock, I'm about to go become somebody's husband. I've never been one before and I think I have the right to be nervous about the fact that I'll suddenly be part of a family and I have every potential to muck it up."

"Oh, I see. You're nervous about the future, not the actual wedding. Boring."

"Sherlock. Seriously? Could you not be a bloody git just for five minutes?"

The detective blinked in surprise. His brow furrowed. "When I said 'boring', I only meant that I thought you had some real apprehension. Being afraid of becoming the husband of the woman you love is an irrational fear on your part, John Watson, because if there's anyone who can get all that marriage nonsense right, it's you.

John's mouth fell open slightly. "Sherlock, that was almost... reassuring. Are you feeling okay?"

"John, I was only stating a fact. No need to get all bent out of shape over it," he said, stony faced for a moment or two before the corner of his mouth quirked up.

Lestrade opened the door again. "Ready, you two?"

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John stood before the altar, trying desperately not to give away just how nervous he really was. Sherlock did have a point; he had indeed been to war and back, but this... This was a far more terrifying prospect. His heart thundered in his ears as he tried to steady his breath. _Funny how even perspective can't talk you out of things sometimes._

Yes, John had survived a war. But he hadn't done it by thinking about the future. He supposed that was the source of his fear. Mary was offering him a chance at normal life, and the very idea of screwing it up was more frightening than dying alone in a foreign land.

John was very used to the idea of being alone. Or at least, he had been until Sherlock dragged him into the tumultuous world of crime-solving. Then Sherlock had died, and John went back to the familiar, depressive place he had inhabited after being discharged.

Mary had saved his life. She really had. He was wasting away in Baker Street with only himself and soon there wouldn't have been anything left of him. And then Molly had introduced them one day while he was visiting at the morgue, and it was like he could breathe again. John owed Mary so much. She was so very precious to him, and he suddenly felt very justified about his fear of mucking it up.

_But if Sherlock Holmes thinks Mary and I can make it, I should probably take that as a cue to calm right down._ The processional music began to play and the doors opened, and John took a very deep breath.

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Molly couldn't help but be very, very happy. Two of the best people she knew, who deserved each other so completely and totally, were getting their fairytale ending. She fidgeted behind the door of the women's hall, practically bouncing with excitement. She looked over her shoulder at Mary, who had suddenly been overcome with a sense of calm.

Molly thought she had never been so beautiful before in the entire time they'd known each other. She looked very serene with a sort of dreamy smile on her lips, her grey eyes aglow with contentment. Her cheeks were suffused with a natural, rosy blush. Her honey colored hair fell in loose ringlets down her back, covered by a creamy veil. Simple, elegant diamonds twinkled in her ears and hair, and around her neck. Mary's dress reflected her very well: she had chosen an ivory-hued mermaid cut that caught the light and made everything seem just a little brighter. In her wrist-gloved hands, she held a simple bouquet of pink and white roses, bound with a tangle of green and yellow ribbons that cascaded from the stems.

Molly flashed her an encouraging smile before turning back to the doors. But as she did so, she caught sight of herself in the mirrored hall. She found that she hardly recognized the woman that stared back at her.

Eloise and Mary had arranged Molly's hair in gentle waves, crowned with a circlet of braids and a cream colored flower tucked behind her left ear. A simple string of pearls encircled her slim neck, matching the drops in her earlobes. Mary's colors were forest green and a pale yellow, and the dresses she'd chosen for the bridesmaids were a soft jade. The dress clung to Molly's body like a second skin. It was strapless, leaving her shoulders and collarbones quite visible, and fell just to her knees. Thankfully, Mary had been merciful with the shoes and decided on a demure two-inch heel.

She swallowed as she considered herself, suddenly aware that she looked and felt... beautiful. Molly found that she couldn't look at the woman in the mirror very long, and turned her face away. She was afraid that she wouldn't be able to find herself in the image if she kept looking. Allowing herself one final glance, she tried to reconcile herself with that otherworldly creature.

_That's still me, just in a fancy dress. That's it. No need to be afraid of yourself, Molly girl. Just enjoy the feeling for now, and later you can go hide in your favorite kitten jumper._

The doors opened, and Molly stepped into the hall at the same time as the best man. He wore a black suit, with a dress shirt that matched the shade of her dress and a flower pinned in the buttonhole, exactly like the one behind her ear. He closed the distance between them, and offered his arm, completely silent all the while. He just stared at her, with a strange intensity Molly couldn't remember seeing before, as she carefully place her hand on his forearm.

As they made their way towards John, he kept looking at her. Molly found that she was afraid to meet his gaze, afraid of what she'd see in those stormy eyes. After what seemed an eternity, they reached the altar and parted, but still he would not look away from her. Molly turned away from him as the doors opened, and Mary appeared on her father's arm.

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John stopped breathing as soon as Mary stepped through the doors. She smiled as she met his eyes, and mouthed the words _I love you_. He could feel tears already welling as his bride-to-be slowly made her way forward. She was an angel, sent specially to him to save his life, and today, gowned in ivory, John could see a halo just above her head.

He memorized every detail of this moment, desperate to remember it for the rest of his life. This woman loved him. She loved him and that was the only thing that mattered now, and the only thing that would ever matter for every day that followed.

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Sherlock tore his gaze from Molly in time to see Mary enter the sanctuary. She looked ordinary to him, but a glance at John's face told him everything he needed to know about her. The army doctor's eyes began to shine with tears and he smiled at the woman walking towards him. _How peculiar, the effect two people can have on one another._

He looked back at Mary. Sherlock supposed that, yes, she was beautiful, but he simply couldn't see anything rare or remarkable about her until tears began rolling down John's cheeks. _Of course. She is made exceptional by John's love for her, and by hers for him. How very strange._

Almost without realizing it, Sherlock's eyes returned to Molly. Tears glittered in her chocolate eyes as Mary's father placed her hand in John's. She raised one of those clever hands to brush them away, and suddenly Sherlock was lying drugged on her couch, feeling that hand smooth his damp curls from his forehead. He swayed ever so slightly, dizzy at the sensation and drunk on the sight of Molly. She met his eyes, and gave him that small smile that was only his.

That odd stirring that she sometimes caused in his chest was nearly overwhelming this time, but still he could not look away from her. His heart raced, nearly matching the pace of his thoughts as he tried to dissect the feeling and understand this effect she was having on him.

"I, John Hamish Watson, take you, Mary Alicia Morstan, to be my lawfully wedded wife..."

_How very peculiar. How very... human._

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Author's Note: AAAAAHHHHHH THEY'RE FINALLY GETTING MARRIED! I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry. Except I'm not. I have been working my way here for AGES and now they're married! Squeeee! I hope you liked. I hope you liked it lots. Let me know what you think? Pretty pretty please with a cherry on top? :) Will do my best to post soon. You all are wonderful!

Much love and thanks,  
-The Queen of Fragile Hearts.


	13. Ch 13: By the Light of Nights Gone By

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's _Sherlock_, much as I wish I did :)**

**Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream or a memory.**

**Shout-outs: As always, thanks go first and foremost to my perfectly sassy editor, pruplup4, who's kept me on the straight and narrow. Flowers and chocolates to my dear followers and my newest: BlackPetals23, ForTheLoveOfMyShadow, Rocking the Redhead, Catherine Pugh, lostloveinharmony, GingerSnap14, and TheLettersFromNoOne! Now. You reviewer folks. You rock. All of you, especially those of you who commented on the last chapter: KTrevo, Anatomydoc, BlackPetals23, Phanlockian (Guest), Rocking the Redhead, iamthedaisyqueen, the fantastic Irene90, Icemask511, SammyKatz, and Renaissancebooklover! Okay, can I just say: you guys have brought Five Doctors to an astonishing 4900 views! O.M.G. You all are fantastic! Brilliant! Magnificent!**

**Summary: In which things happen :)**

**Please enjoy!**

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Chapter Thirteen: By the Light of Nights Gone By

Night had fallen over the garden by the Thames by the time the wedding party arrived. Away from the city lights, the full moon and the stars glimmered in the heavens, as in answer to the glow of the tea lights strung through the trees and overhead. Molly was exhausted already, too exhausted to notice the fairylike quality of the garden, and rubbed her temples as they entered the reception area.

She wished that she hadn't agreed with Mary on doing away with the traditional wedding party's table, because now she had to spend another ten minutes on her feet, looking for her seat. Molly wandered through the smaller tables, searching the placecards for her name. She found every bridesmaid and groomsman except for...

She realized with a sinking feeling that the only names she hadn't yet found were hers and Sherlock's. In a secluded corner of the garden, she found a small table for two at which Miss Molly Hooper and Mr. Sherlock Holmes just happened to be placed. She shifted back and forth on her feet, nervously imagining how the evening would go. He was in one of his moods where he didn't speak and alternated between staring at nothing and staring at her.

It had been unnerving enough when they were surrounded by people, but Molly wasn't sure if she could handle the intensity of his eyes for hours while it was just the two of them. She looked over her shoulder towards the middle of the garden where John and Mary sat at their sweetheart table. They noticed her glare and each grinned mischievously. _Of course they did_, she thought with a sigh.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Eloise stood outside the garden, anxiously rubbing her arms and breathing deeply. This was why she hadn't wanted to come, hadn't wanted to wear a fancy dress and commune with others. _I have always been happier in peace and solitude, always._ She shivered as the evening air began to chill on her skin.

She had always been frightened of people in large groups. Eloise found that she functioned best with cats and ancient artifacts rather than people, whom she could only manage a few at a time. Derek and Gregory had been among her very first friends, and when she had been with her boys she could cope more easily with the choking fear that gripped her when confronted with crowds of human interaction. She had also chosen a profession that minimized such contact. Eloise was much more comfortable with the long-dead and their possessions than she was with the currently living.

_And this dress_, she thought as she swallowed and took a few steps towards the entrance. She rarely wore anything but jeans and jumpers when she wasn't on a dig, and obviously she didn't wear flouncy evening gowns to excavate tombs. Eloise had never liked to wear anything that even remotely displayed her figure, much less one that clung to it. Derek would have told her she was being silly, that he'd never seen a woman more beautiful, and that he loved her. _But Derek isn't here and you cannot hide forever, and you promised him and Gregory that you'd try._

She drew her silver shawl tightly around her shoulders, and took one last, steadying deep breath before finally entering the garden.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Michael leaned back in his chair, tugging at his tie with one hand and absently swirling his wine with the other. He had already exhausted himself by exchanging pleasantries with his coworkers and making feeble attempts at meeting John and Mary's friends. Thankfully, the table at which Mary had placed him was only large enough for one other person, and it didn't seem that anyone was going be sharing the table with him, as there was no placecard at the other table setting.

He took a drink of the sweet white wine and pushed his salad around his plate. Michael was very content to simply observe life as it carried on around him. The newlyweds leaned close at their table, whispering and kissing and smiling. People found their way to the dance floor, and stood around chattering, and sat at their tables while remarking about how beautiful everything was. Music was playing and there was laughter everywhere. Everywhere, life happened.

Michael smiled and took another sip. There was a pleasant buzzing in his throat that made him feel rather alive. Certainly, the wine had something to do with it, but he felt that it was something more, something deeper. He suspected that perhaps he might be happy, or at the very least, not-sad.

As he watched life happen, he noticed something that made it slow and slur. Molly was talking to someone he had never met before, but she was so very familiar, so very comforting. Then Molly was pointing at him, and the familiar someone turned her face towards him and began walking. Suddenly, she was in front of him and extending a graceful, tanned hand, and introducing herself in a gentle, quiet voice that reminded him faintly of sunshine, though he couldn't say why.

"Hello. My name is Eloise."

For a few moments, he could do nothing but look at her, she was so terribly familiar. Carefully, he took her hand and said, "Hello, Eloise. I'm Michael. It's so very nice to meet you."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Mary watched as Molly returned to her seat and sat alone at the table.

"John, where's Sherlock gotten off to?"

He turned to look at their table, and upon seeing Molly by herself, he frowned.

"He said something about a walk through the other gardens, something about needing some silence to think, but I thought he'd be back by now."

"Great. He probably left, and now we've stranded Molly alone in a corner!

John took his wife's hand. "Mary, remember how we're trying to give them some credit?"

"Remember how Sherlock is more child than adult?" she shot back.

He looked at her sternly. "Hey. He really is trying. D'you know, he even sort of tried his hand at being encouraging earlier?"

"Are you sure you weren't hallucinating or having a stroke or something?" she said incredulously.

"Yep. Even pinched myself to make sure."

They were too busy laughing to notice Sherlock's approach, and Mary nearly fell out of her seat in surprise when he spoke.

"Good evening, Doctors Watson. Enjoying the beginning of wedded bliss?"

"Very much so. Finished thinking?" Mary replied.

Sherlock's lips turned down slightly. "Never. But I have finished speaking with Mycroft."

"Mycroft? What, has he got some legwork he thinks he hasn't the time to do?"

"Actually, he sends his congratulations and hopes that you'll accept a wedding present from the both of us."

The newlyweds exchanged puzzled looks. "Wedding present? From you _and_ Mycroft?" John said warily.

"Yes. After a good deal of arguing, we thought that perhaps you'd rather spend your three-week honeymoon in Nice rather than in London."

"Oh, Sherlock, of course we would! How thoughtful! Thank you so much! And Mycroft, of course. May I hug you?" Mary exclaimed as she stood up.

Sherlock looked very uncomfortable, and was about to say no when John flashed him a rather pointed look. The detective frowned and extended his arms to accept her. After a few seconds he cleared his throat. The pained expression on his face was not missed by either of them, but they were too impressed at how nice he was being to call him on it. "I do hope that won't become a regular expectation," he said as he straightened his jacket.

"Sherlock," John said sternly, but Mary just laughed.

"No, you're off the hook. Now don't you have somewhere to be, Mr. Holmes?" she said with a glance in Molly's direction.

"Yes, I suppose I do. And, both of you... congratulations," he said with some uncertainty before he turned away.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Molly took another long drink of her wine, and was about to go and say goodbye to John and Mary so she could finally go home when a familiar figure was suddenly standing before her.

"Molly."

There was something about the way he always said her name. Something that made her feel too much at times, and at others, not enough. That was his spell, she supposed.

"Did you save me that dance?"

"I didn't think you were serious," she replied with a tired smile.

"I was very serious, Doctor Hooper." He offered his hand expectantly, with his face impassive and his eyes unfathomable.

"Sherlock, I don't know how to dance."

"No. But I do, and you're a quick learner," he said in all seriousness as he pulled her to her feet. The looks of disbelief they received from everyone who knew them were not lost on Molly, but Sherlock either didn't notice or simply didn't care. That was his way. She supposed it was logical: if he cared what every single random person thought of him, he probably would have gone mad ages ago.

Suddenly, as he curled his hand around her waist and pulled her close, she found that she understood him in a way she should have long ago. Molly was absolutely certain that at sometime in his life, he had felt far too much and that superpowered brain of his couldn't handle the overload, couldn't process the feelings. So he shut them down and forgot about them. It wasn't that he couldn't feel; he just couldn't remember how.

_How very lonely he must have been as a child_, she thought as tears began to prickle behind her eyes. _How very sad and angry and alone._

"Why do you look as though you're going to cry?" he asked quietly as his brow furrowed.

"I've just solved a puzzle, that's all. Don't worry, I'm not going to cry. I know how it frightens you."

They were silent for a few thick moments as she watched him think. Molly never grew tired of it, of observing his thought processes as they manifested in his face and his eyes.

"What were you thinking about earlier, Sherlock? At the wedding?"

His eyes refocused on her, shifting and sparking with unsaid words and unidentifiable emotions. He frowned, and she could see that he was trying to find exactly what he wanted to say, but couldn't. She smiled softly and leaned into him again.

"It doesn't matter. Don't worry about it."

Molly felt him tense against her, felt him begin to lose himself in thought, and she sighed as she waited for him to come back from wherever he'd gone.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Eloise smiled into her wine glass as she took another sip. She found that wasn't frightened so much anymore as she laughed and talked with the man next to her. It was very strange: people were always telling her that she was so familiar, but this time she found herself in that position, feeling as though she had known Michael Prescott for her entire life.

He ran a hand through his sandy curls and flashed her a smile that created the loveliest little lines around his eyes. She knew that his heart had been in a place rather similar to hers, and she found it so wonderful that his smile could be so warm and real. He was just as damaged or more than she was, and she was glad to see that the longer they talked the more he relaxed, and in turn he carefully coaxed her out of her choking fear.

And then he wasn't smiling anymore, just looking at her with what seemed to be a kind of wonder, those warm chestnut eyes boring straight into hers.

"There are stars in your eyes," he said softly as he brushed a stray hair from her face, "and oh, how they shine."

She laughed nervously. "What does that mean?"

A faint blush rose over his cheekbones as he drew back his hand and ducked his head. "I... I think you're very lovely. A-and I apologize for my forwardness."

She could see him collapsing in on himself, could see that he thought he'd broken some rule or another and was about to shut down. Eloise took his hand, suddenly desperate that he stay with her. "I think you're very lovely, too."

And he laughed, and the night was bright again.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

**Author's Note: I'm sorry this took so long! Schoolio and all that. I hope you like? Let me know? Also, not done with the reception, there's more in store :) Also, I'm working on a little collection of one-shots that you lovely folks might enjoy, so look out for it! Thanks so much for your consideration and support!**

**Much love and thanks,  
-The Queen of Fragile Hearts**


	14. Chapter 14: There Is an Ocean Within

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's Sherlock, much as I wish I did :)**

**Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream or a memory.**

**Shout-outs: Four for you, pruplup4, you go pruplup4! And none for someone else, 'cause pruplup4 is my fantastic editor. Next, confetti and ticker tape to my followers, with special shouts to my newest: vicarwithableedingface and CorpseGrl! Flowers and chocolates to everyone who's reviewed Five Doctors, and shock blankets to those who reviewed last chapter: Catherine Pugh, the fantastic Anatomydoc, the wonderful Irene90, KTrevo, Icemask511, Rocking the Redhead, BlackPetals23, Tess (a guest whose review was very sweet!), coloradoandcolorado1, and Renaissancebooklover108! To close as usual, I'll gush over every single person who's checked out Five Doctors, bringing it to an unbelievable 5,600 views! WHAT. I love you all.**

**Summary: In which the reception draws to a close.**

**Please enjoy!**

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Chapter Fourteen: There Is an Ocean Within

_As soon as Sherlock had finished speaking, John made his way to the hall, grabbing furiously at his coat. "Need some air," he said tersely as the door slammed behind him. There was chaos within him, chaos born of all the tangled emotions of the last three years clashing with the sudden resurrection of his best friend. And it was ferocious, this chaos, this anarchy of John's entire being, and it drowned all rational thought._

_Before he realized it, he was stepping out of a cab on the curb of St. Bart's. He cast a baleful stare at that spot, that particular spot on the pavement that had suddenly transformed from a memorial to a reminder of a grand deception, and his blood boiled in his veins. Another moment flashed by and he was nearly running down the hall to the morgue._

_He threw open the doors. She looked up from her lab table and smiled that infuriatingly kind smile. There must have been some kind of fire in his eyes because her smile faltered and failed, and she whispered his name in some strange mixture of guilt, fear, and sorrow._

_"You. Are. Heartless," he bit out as she hung her head. Then he simply turned on his heel and left._

_It wasn't until he was hailing another cab that he realized how unjustified his behavior was. She had saved both of their lives, Sherlock's and his. She didn't deserve his anger. She deserved better than what everyone gave her. Slowly, his furor faded and he was making his way back to the mortuary._

_She wasn't at her table any longer, nor was she in the cold storage. Carefully, he opened the door to her office. "Molly?" A glance at her desk revealed the corner of a labcoat, and he found her leaning against it, arms curled tightly around her legs, face pressed tightly against her knees, her slight frame shaking with repressed sobs._

_He thought it must be terribly painful to cry silently._

_An aching guilt pierced the chaos within John as he knelt beside her and reached a tentative hand to her shoulder. "Molly?"_

_This time she heard him. She lifted her tearstained face and pressed a hand over her mouth as she met his eyes, shoulders still heaving._

_"I didn't mean it, Molly. I didn't mean it. I am so, so sorry."_

_She just nodded and let him pull her into a hug, and he held her while her tears subsided. Somehow it was okay; somehow she understood, and she did not hate him, though he had certainly just earned it. She had given him so much. John took a moment to appreciate that part of Molly's character. She always understood, always, and she gave without reservation, and he was so very grateful that they were friends._

_After a few moments more, she lifted her head and gave him a shaky smile._

_"Thank you, Molly Hooper. For Sherlock and for Mary."_

_"You are so very welcome, John Watson."_

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

As he slowly returned from memory, John absently traced the fingers of Mary's delicate hand, pausing to smile at the band on her finger that marked her as his own. He glanced at the ring on his own hand, thinking it was so right for it to be there, matching his wife's._ I am hers and she is mine. We belong to each other_.

Yet he had not yet emerged from his reverie. He winced at the memory of Molly's face after he said those hateful words, and his hand curled tighter around Mary's. As he looked around the garden at their friends and family, his eyes landed on Sherlock's back. A small, pale hand was curled around his shoulder, and as he watched, that hand slid to his neck, its slender fingers playing with his curls.

John found the sight rather surreal, because it contrasted so starkly with his memory. It seemed that things were reversed: John had taken to hurting Molly, and there was Sherlock, being a human and caring for her.

_Life does love to play with irony. And it loves to remind you what a fool you can be._ He smiled and leaned close to Mary.

"They are still dancing," John murmured into his wife's ear. She turned to look, and sure enough, there they were. They watched as Sherlock slowly guided Molly through a waltz, patiently and gently. To anyone else, his face was unreadable and emotionless, but the way that Molly smiled up at him told John and Mary that he was like an open book to the pathologist in his arms.

"That is not the same man you met in the lab at Bart's all those years ago, John."

"No, I rather think it isn't."

_Then again, neither I am the same man that met Sherlock Holmes that day, with a psychosomatic limp and a terrible attitude. We are, not a one of us, the same._

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Molly stumbled and would have fallen had she not been dancing with Sherlock Holmes. He caught her easily and pulled her closer to steady her. "All right, Molly?"

She blinked at him a few times before leaning her head against his chest. "I'm just dreadfully tired, that's all."

"Then it seems I ought to take you home, Doctor Hooper."

"Home? My landlord called this morning and said my flat wasn't fixed up yet."

"Ah. I meant Baker Street."

"Did you? Mm. All right, then. Take me home after this song."

He laughed quietly, uncertainly. They were silent for a while, but Molly could practically feel him trying to formulate something to say.

"What is it, Sherlock?" she said, her voice softened with sleep. She could feel him tense a little, and she drew back to look at his face. "What is it?"

"Speaking of your flat, Molly... I think that you should consider finding a new place. It seems that your street has become a rather unsavory area, and a pathologist of your esteem should certainly be living in a nicer building."

"Why, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were worried about me."

A muscle in his jaw twitched and he looked away from her. Without pause or preface, he continued.

"There is a second bedroom at 221B."

Molly raised an eyebrow at the detective, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. "So there is, Mr. Holmes. What of it?" She watched his brow furrow as he tried to understand her casual demeanor, jaw still twitching.

"Baker Street is a good deal closer to Bart's, and to John and Mary's, than your flat is."

"Well then, I suppose it is."

"It's a logical answer to your current situation."

"How very convenient."

He leaned close and whispered silkily in her ear. "Must you torture me so?"

"Oh, I must, if only to watch you flounder," she returned in a similar tone.

Sherlock drew back and swallowed, and as he turned his face away from her once more, she was utterly surprised to see the faintest blush rise over those impossible cheekbones.

"Just take me home already," she said, and pressed close against him.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

They had long since abandoned the pretense of interacting with others and had sneaked into the neighboring garden. Eloise clutched tightly at Michael's hand as she looked over her shoulder to smile at him. She was running barefooted along the path, feeling somehow as though she was just a child again.

As they came to a little grassy spot by a pond she stumbled and fell, dragging him down with her. Michael landed beside her with an "oof" before he began to laugh, and folded his hands beneath his head. She leaned on her elbow so she could look at him.

His coat and tie were long-forgotten, likely in the same place as her shoes and shawl, and the top few buttons of his shirt were undone. Michael's sandy curls were tousled, endearingly so, and his eyes were turned to the stars while a faint smile played at his lips.

"You know, I've this little cottage in northern Scotland. Just after she died, I spent a good while there, as alone as possible. Every night, I'd follow this winding path to the shore, where there is a large, flat rock. And I'd climb upon it and lie down and try my hardest to become a part of the dark sky. Do you know that feeling of lying on your back and trying to understand the turn of the universe? It's maddening, but it's lovely."

Eloise laughed, and he turned to face her, smile widening and eyes shining. "What?"

"Do you deliberately sound like a poet whenever you speak? Trying to dazzle me, are you?"

"Well, if it sounds like poetry to you then I suppose I must be dazzling," he returned with barely undisguised amusement. But his face quickly returned to the soft, kind smile that had first explained him to her. "No, that's not what I'm aiming at. There are times when I just can't think of the way to vocalize a feeling. Does it really sound silly?"

"No sillier than the idea of a young woman who likes cats better than most people."

They were silent and still for a little while. Slowly, Eloise became aware of a dull buzzing in the back of her skull and she realized that Molly had secured her hair too tightly. One by one, she pulled the ornamental pins from the elaborate up-do, until her hair tumbled loose around her shoulders. She ran her hands along her scalp, trying to massage some feeling back into it.

"Why do you keep your hair so long?" he said, absently twirling a strand between his fingers.

"My mother always wore her hair past her waist. In the evenings, she'd ask me to brush it and she'd sing me her stories while I did. It's a part of her I can still share."

She met his eyes again, and was startled to see tears gathering there. "Eloise, wherever you've come from, I do hope you won't leave me behind when you return."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I don't think I know yet."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

**Author's Note: Yeah. I don't even know. Go ahead and judge me for this ridiculous fluff. So. Yeah. Let me know what you think :)**

**Much love and thanks,  
-The Queen of Fragile Hearts**


	15. Ch 15: Living Is a Slow Kind of Burning

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's ****_Sherlock_****, much as I wish I did :)**

**Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream or a memory.**

**Shout-outs: Heeeeeeey guess what! I'm too impatient to wait for my editor, but I hope pruplup4 will understand and not smite me from above! Next, followers! Both new and old- thankyouthankyouthankyou! Special thanks to my newest: my beloved Helene Gaspard and my dear Ken Ned and Eddy! Have a frolic through the flowers on me ;) Hey reviewers! Have some cookies for being so fantastic, especially those who commented on the last chapter: BlackPetals23, who is always so tolerant of fluff; KTrevo, who may have correctly identified some flirting going on, but I'm not telling; the lovely, wonderful Irene90 who is so helpful and kind; Helene Gaspard, my very dear friend whose feels are truly inspiring; vicarwithableedingface, who is very welcome for the confetti and ticker tape; the ever-faithful and ever-cheerful Renaissancebooklover108; the incomparable GingerSnap14, who gets kittens to go with the cookies; and my dearest, most wonderfullest Anatomydoc :) As always, abudant thanks to everyone who's checked out Five Doctors, because it's now up to an incredible 6000 views! All of you are brilliant!**

**Summary: In which I will not tell you what happens because I don't want to spoil anything. Also 'cause I can't think of a fancy but ambiguous way to say it.**

**Please enjoy!**

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

_"Now I see, that living is a kind of slow burning, and love is what we salvage from the ashes." -Patrick Clary_

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Chapter Fifteen: Living is a Kind of Slow Burning

_He could not take his eyes off of her. The wind whipped her hair around her face and lashed her cheeks. She was pale and shaking, as she stood on the very edge of the rooftop in her familiar pink jumper. It was like he could really see her for the very first time, and she had never been more beautiful. And it had never hurt more._

_"Leave a note when?" he heard his voice say, though it did not seem to issue from his throat. It was more of an echoing on the wind, disjointed and desperate, and he could not breathe._

_"Goodbye, Sherlock," she answered, her voice numb and dull._

_"No. Don't!"_

_Then she was spreading her arms, and tilting forwards. And she was falling, falling, and he was falling with her, powerless and terrified. There was no sound anymore, save for the rushing of blood in his veins._

_And even that ceased when she struck the pavement and moved no more._

_Then he was cradling her broken form as if it was all he'd done for his entire life._

_There was silence. And there was still._

_It was the strangest feeling, gazing into the eyes of a dead person. They weren't her eyes anymore. There was no soul there, and they were dim and vacant. His fingers ghosted over her eyelids, closing the shattered windows forever._

_He brushed her hair off her face, his hand lingering on her cheek. He could feel her warmth fading, and it was the very last thing he could handle. For the first time in decades, tears raced down his face, and he wept._

_No one had come to try and save her. No one had noticed that she was suddenly ended. There wasn't a single living soul on the streets to care, to hurt, to cry out. She wouldn't save herself, and he couldn't save her._

_There was silence. And it burned._

_He had put her up there on that rooftop, and he had pulled her off. He had destroyed her, and in doing so had destroyed the very first person to look at him and see something that made her care. She had seen the shriveled husk of his heart, and rather than write him off as cruel and emotionless, she offered compassion and healing. She had seen the beast within him and she had not turned away in fear, and now she was limp in his arms. Empty._

_He had taken all that she could give. There was nothing left of her except what remained in his mind. It was a poor memorial, but it was all he could give as slowly, slowly his heart withered and shrunk. An icy heaviness settled in his chest and spread through his limbs. She was completely cold now._

_There wasn't Molly._

_There was silence. And there was pain._

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

He was ablaze, every inch of him. Sherlock awoke, gasping and panting, pulse racing and brow sweating. Every single muscle in his body was tensed and locked tight. He clutched at his chest, aware of the most terrible sensation of imploding. _What is happening to me?_

Briefly his eyes searched the dimness for Molly's form before he remembered that she was upstairs, in the bedroom she had inhabited for the past two months. Two months of her warmth, her smiles, her laughter.

He was drowning in her. She had opened the floodgates and he was drowning in emotions he had long since repressed. His lungs filled and he was sinking, sinking, being inexorably dragged into the depths by this powerful force. _What has she done to me?_

Sherlock stumbled out of his bed and put on his clothes. His legs carried him out of 221B and into the bleak London night. His head began to ache and burn alongside his chest as he struggled to understand this reaction his body was producing. He felt claustrophic and untethered and lost, all at the same time, and the sensation was blinding, dizzying. It overrode every ounce of logic and reason and he had to make it end.

He was nearly to an alley he knew better than his childhood home when the imploding feeling finally overcame him. He sunk to his knees, eyes focusing on everything and nothing as his thoughts flew apart and disintegrated. Tongues of fire licked his bones, consuming any sort of rational thought and ravaging his entire being. Sherlock beat the ground with his fists until they bled.

Somehow that brought him the smallest bit of clarity long enough for a word to pierce his chaotic mind.

_John_.

That word pulled him to his feet and sent him running, running until he was on their street. His beleaguered body collapsed on their front steps and his hands clutched his throbbing head, fisted in his curls and tugged. The flames climbed ever higher, grew ever brighter and ever sharper.

_John_.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John's alarm went off promptly at 6:00. Mary grumbled and dragged the covers over her head. "Do we have to go to work today?" came her muffled voice. He answered her only with a poke in the back.

"I'm going to make coffee and if you aren't out of bed by the time it brews, I'll come and tickle you out."

"Is that a threat, Doctor Watson?"

"Actually, Doctor Watson, it's a promise," he replied as he left their room. He started the coffee and switched on the morning news before going to the front door to get the paper. But as the door swung open, instead of a paper on the porch steps he found a detective.  
"Sherlock?"

He didn't move, not a twitch, just sat there with his back to John, hands twisted in his hair.

"How long have you been out here? What's going on? What on earth happened to your hands?"

After several minutes of silence on Sherlock's part and numerous questions on John's, he turned to face the army doctor with a terrified look in his eyes.

"John. I can't control it."

"Can't control what?"

"Feeling."

John sat down beside his friend, careful not to touch him in his frantic state. Sherlock had finally released his head, but his hands shook and his eyes darted about. John couldn't even imagine what had to be going on in that brilliant mind of his, but he could definitely see that he was dangerously close to tearing himself apart.

"How did this start?"

"I... had a... nightmare."

"About?"

"Molly. She... John, I'm sorry. I am."

"For what, Sherlock?"

"For the fall."

They were quiet for a while, as the sun finished rising and Sherlock's hands slowly stopped shaking.

"I'm going to tell you something you won't want to hear. But you need to, because it'll answer quite a lot of your problems."

He turned his face to John, eyes obviously searching him to divine the something that he wouldn't want to hear. He watched as Sherlock figured it out, and was surprised to see that he did not draw away in disgust at the very idea. Rather, it sort of returned him to himself as he deduced and reasoned and sought to test and prove the thought.

"You love Molly. Damned if I know how it happened, but you do. That's what's happened to you. See if that can't help you sort yourself out."

Silently, Sherlock stood and took a few steps down the walk before her turned back to him.

"John... Thank you."

And then he was striding down the path, coat swirling behind him. John watched him go before he ran back inside.

"Mary Alicia Watson, you are never going to believe what just happened. I think you can get out of bed long enough to hear this!"

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Molly couldn't shake the slight feeling of worry that tingled at the back of her mind. It had been there since she'd knocked on Sherlock's door this morning to find him missing. She tried to reason with herself, saying that it wasn't unusual for him to just disappear without preamble, but still...

But she couldn't help but worry. That was part of caring for an extraordinary and self-destructive man. And as she finished getting ready for work and locked the door to 221B, she managed to reassure herself that he'd taken his coat. Whenever possible, she tucked his phone, his wallet, and the flat key in the pockets in a vague attempt to keep him out of trouble, and thankfully she'd done so last night.

After a long, stressful day of work, she came home to find still no one but Toby, and she curled herself into Sherlock's chair with a glass of wine as her worry intensified.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

No one had seen him for three days. He wasn't answering his phone, he hadn't showed up at Bart's, or even at the Yard. Molly knew; that very afternoon she'd gone to see Greg, to see if he'd been there.

With a heavy heart, she climbed the stairs, searching for her keys in her purse. As she came into his flat -_their_ flat- she was all prepared to put on her jammies and drown her terror in yet another glass of wine when she saw him. He was sitting in his chair, hands running over his violin. Her bag slipped from her fingers. "Where have you been? I've been so afraid," she whispered.

Sherlock didn't answer her right away. A few agonizing moments of silence passed before he lifted his head and spoke. "Why?"

She hadn't left the hall yet, couldn't leave the hall yet. Molly just stood there, staring at him. "Why what?"

"Why do you love me?"

Slowly, she made her way into the living room until she was just a few feet away. He stood and closed the distance to just a few inches. Molly raised a tentative hand and placed it over his heart, which began to race as she had become accostumed to, in response to her touch.

"Why do I love you? I love your mind. Your magnificent, overpowered mind, because you see things like no one else and it's brilliant, so very brilliant. I love your voice and your hands and your eyes. I love your music, particularly the way it takes you away and brings you back. I love the parts of you that you think no one can see, the parts of you that you're not completely aware of. And you know what? You could being doing anything, Sherlock. Answering life's greatest questions, curing diseases, anything. And yet you solve crimes. Because somewhere inside you, you care about people, and this is a medium through which you can be detached and still help. I love you because you are a good man, whether others think so or not. But other than that, I have no idea why I love you. There was a time I tried not to but still I do, God help me, I still do."

His eyes never left hers as she trailed off and his hand moved to cover hers on his chest. And then he was leaning so painfully close to her until they shared the same breath.

"W-what are you d-doing?" she said, stuttering at his intensity for the first time in ages.

"Experiment," he replied, that soft, rich voice just slightly rough for whatever reason.

And then he was kissing her, as if it was the very first time, and the very last, that he'd ever done so.

And quietly, quietly, the inferno subsided into a soft, gentle flame.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

_"Now I see, that living is a kind of slow burning, and love is what we salvage from the ashes." -Patrick Clary_

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Author's Note: Nope. I can't even. Just, try not to be too hard on me.

Much love and many thanks,  
-The Queen of Fragile Hearts


	16. Chapter 16: The Wheel Turns

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's ****_Sherlock_****, much as I wish I did :)**

**Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream or a memory.**

**Shout-outs: First of all! You may have noticed that the cover art has changed to an original composition by my beloved Helene Gaspard! Check her out under that pen name, she writes some really it-hurts-so-good stuff :) Next, you all know my darling editor, pruplup4! Pruplup4, readers. Readers, pruplup4. On to my followers, both new and old, with special shouts to the latest: Lily-mae001, Hyadum, Eun Mi, kunani07, dabushey, and Lady of Sign! To my dear reviewers I shout "Excelsior!", and offer a place on the high council to those who reviewed last chapter: BlackPetals23, vicarwithableedingface, Helene Gaspard, Irene90, Anatomydoc, Rocking the Redhead, SammyKatz, KTrevo, Mols, Guest, kArA123, GingerSnap14,Renaissancebooklover108, Icemask511, and Lady of Sign! Finally, abundant thanks to all who've checked out Five Doctors, bringing it to a gorgeous 7,150 views! You are all brilliant!**

**Now: please enjoy :)**

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Chapter Sixteen: The Wheel Turns

In the weeks and months following that rather extraordinary evening, Molly witnessed a sort of renaissance in Sherlock. There was a lull in the city's typically high amount of criminal activity, and the few cases he had, he tore through with enthousiasm. To fill the empty days he spent while Molly was busy at work and while John was busy being married and Eloise was busy being reclusive or, as he put it, "messing about with Michael", he read everything he could get his hands on: biographies, classics, scientific journals, Eloise's archaeological papers, historical fictions, science fictions, ancient mythologies, anything that seemed even remotely interesting. Though he would take the secret to his grave, she even noticed a book mark in one of her favorite romance novels that she had not put there and also did not belong to her.

One night, she came home from the hospital to find him shooting a copy of William Goulding's _The Lord of the Flies_, which he'd nailed to the wall. He then proceeded to give her an hour-long lecture about the innate stupidity of children and the overall idiocy of having children. After which, just to be intentionally provocative, she claimed that she liked the book. Before he could start another lecture, she snatched the gun from his hand, landed one spectacular shot right in the bridge of Piggy's damned spectacles, kissed Sherlock soundly, and went to take a bath.

In secret, Eloise taught him the piano, and one evening, when they were over at 220B for tea, the pair surprised Molly with a duet of the Egyptologist's beloved "Moonlight Sonata." He'd even carried the habit far enough to place a piano in their own living room, and played it nearly as much as his violin. He composed pages and pages of music for both instruments, and they were scattered all over the sitting room, despite Molly's ceaseless attempts to stack them atop the piano.

He even invested himself in the study of astronomy, and soon was whispering endless lists of galaxies and planets and stars and constellations in her ear while they had their evening tea. She supposed it was a sort of unintentional answer to the merciless teasing he'd received about the earth-goes-round-the-sun thing. From the time she'd first moved to the city, Molly had usually spent every other weekend exploring London's antique shops, and one such weekend, she bought him a brass telescope. Upon presenting it to him she whispered, "For pirates and astronomers," and he answered with a drily-amused half-smile. Yet he spent many nights on the roof, peering through the spyglass at the heavens for hours.

Whenever a case would present itself, he and John would dash about London for a day or two, with the occasional international mystery thrown in the mix. Once, after a three-day engagement in Scotland, he came home with a sudden interest in drawing, and he insisted that Molly teach him. Which, of course, she did, though she had never drawn anything in the view of another living creature, save for Toby. Much less had she ever _taught_ anyone to draw. After a little clumsy instructing, she settled for just showing him the strokes. Like everything else, he picked up the practice easily and gracefully. All it took was a few hours for him to be rendering frighteningly accurate depictions of John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Philby, Greg Lestrade, Eloise, Michael, and finally, Molly herself.

However, he stomped into her bedroom around three that very night, and demanded why, even though his work was much more accurate and precise, hers was much more realistic, more lifelike. She rubbed her eyes and considered the lanky frame in the doorway as he frowned at her, expecting an answer. "Sherlock, try feeling when you draw. Then we'll talk. And in the morning, next time?" she said before dragging the blankets back over her head.

When she came down the stairs for breakfast, her feet brushed through piles and piles of half-finished drawings, and she followed the trail of incomplete artwork to his chair. He sat on the back of it with a sheet of paper balanced on his knees, staring at it. "Did you get it?" she asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. Without looking at her, he handed her the paper. It was a very peculiar drawing. Molly was looking at her own face, sketched skillfully yet still lifelessly and emotionlessly. But his failure was not complete: in the penciled shading of her eyes, somehow, someway, Sherlock had captured the very idea of her, and her heart swelled with affection for him. She pressed a kiss to his mop of curls and told him the drawing was lovely before she went to set the kettle.

His obsession with drawing ended as quickly as it began, however, because he hated the idea that he coud not master it, and soon all of his drawings were thrown away or burned, aside from that very last one, which Molly had stolen and pasted in her own sketch book. Pencil drawings were long-abandoned for the pursuit of cooking, origami, the bassoon, gardening, and a million other things, but still Molly cherished the morning she'd found him staring at her image.

It was like Sherlock had suddenly decided the world was worth discovering, its vast caverns of intellectual wealth worth exploring and understanding. The only drawback, of course, was that one could hide absolutely nothing at all from him now, so much had he increased his understanding of the human race. It was both admirable and incredibly maddening.

Thus the time passed, and each day they discovered more of each other in the quiet and solitude of 221B. Now and then, Molly would stop and wonder how she had come to this point, to this place in her life in which she shared a flat- and a rather peculiar relationship -with Sherlock Holmes. If someone had told her, on the very first day she'd met him, that she would end up loving him, faking his death, and eventually living with him, she'd probably have gone batty then and there. Yet here she was, experiencing a very different sort of life with a very different sort of man, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Eloise pulled her coat closer around her with her right arm and curled her left hand more tightly around Michael's arm as a particularly bone-chilling gust of wind swept the empty street. She peered up at him in the dim glow of the streetlights as a faint dusting of snow began to cover the gray pavement and the surrounding buildings. A few stray snowflakes settled in his sandy curls, and the wind brought a bit of color to his otherwise pale skin. That small, content smile to which Eloise had become accustomed to seeing on his kind face was tugging at the corners of his mouth. She decided that he looked honestly happy, like he wasn't attempting to give others the impression he was really all right.

She knew he wasn't. But she also knew that he was healing. That he was slowly returning to himself.

He noticed her scrutiny and he looked down at her as his smile widened. "Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?" he said, with mirth in his eyes.

She laughed, and then they were quiet for a while, walking in companionable silence until they reached 220B. Eloise released his arm in order to unlock the door.

"Care to have some cocoa?" she said as she turned back to him. He didn't answer; he just looked at her with a sort of wonder, the sort that seemed to overtake him at random moments during their times together. "Hey. You okay?"

He shook his head and smiled again before following her up the stairs. Eloise left him in the entry way to replace her heavy coats with a thick knitted sweater and trade her sturdy boots for a pair of fuzzy slippers. She passed through the living room to go to the kitchen after observing him on her little sofa, sorting through the enormous bag of books they'd acquired from her favorite little secondhand store.

When she came back to the sitting room the next time, with a cup of steaming cocoa in each hand, he had neatly stacked the books into his-and-hers piles. Eloise curled herself beside him on the couch, tucking her legs beneath her, and he wrapped an arm around her. They sipped their cocoa in silence, content merely with each other's presence, until she felt that Michael wanted to say something.

"What's rattling around in that big brain of yours, Doctor Prescott?"

"Funny that you asked, Doctor Johnson. I was wondering, how long have we known each other?"

"Oh, lifetimes, I should think."

"Be serious."

"Fine. Um... It's been about seven months."

"Well. Then, I was wondering... if... we might... see each other?"

"I was under the impression that we have been seeing each other."

"Bothersome woman. You know what I mean."

"Do I?"

"Hey."

She laughed and conceded that yes, she knew what he meant, and yes, they might see each other. Eloise shivered slightly and drew herself closer to his warmth, ready to return to their comfortable silence when he spoke again.

"Eloise?"

"Yes?" she drew the word out much longer than necessary.

"Now that we're... seeing each other... I was wondering... if... it would be acceptable... for me to... to kiss you?"

"Actually, I think it's slightly mandatory," she returned as she tilted her face towards his.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

He slept on her sofa that evening, since they talked long into the nighttime hours about everything and nothing. The next morning, she found both Orestes and Iphigenia drowsing atop him. His reading glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose and his hair was hopelessly, adorably messy.

"Michael," she sing-songed from the kitchen as she set the kettle and cracked some eggs into a skillet, "The cats will mutiny soon if you don't wake up. I won't be responsible for your injuries."

He appeared a minute later in the kitchen doorway, clothes endearingly rumpled and face set in a sort of thoughtful, brooding look.

"How long ago was it that Derek died?" he asked quietly.

She ceased her puttering-about and turned to look at him, curious as to what brought him to ask. "Nearly seven years ago. Why?"

He was quiet for a while, before abruptly asking, "Is this wrong?"

"Is what wrong?"

"Us. Seeing each other."

She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him, resting her cheek against his chest. "Why should it be?"

"Last week, it was the... She's been gone for two years now. I know she'd want me to be happy, but it just seems too soon. They've not been gone nearly long enough for us to carry on, to forget."

"Michael, Michael, Michael," she murmured into his sweater, "They'll never be gone long enough for us to forget. Never. But they would not deny us happiness. Life is too long to be without somebody, even if the someone you've lost seemed like the only someone. And it's too short to be unhapy. Don't turn away now."

And he held her gently, in the door frame of her tiny kitchen, and outside the snow swirled on the wind.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

**Author's Note: Hi guys! Sorry I took so long. I was a little lost after that last chapter, but here we go! I've got maybe 2 left? I think? Anyway. Let me know what you think!**

**Much Love and Thanks,  
-The Queen of Fragile Hearts**


	17. Chapter 17: You Can See Me

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's ****_Sherlock_****, much as I wish I did :)**

**Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream or a memory.**

**Shout-out: As always, hugs and gush to Helene Gaspard, who created the gorgeous cover art! Also as always, kittens and coconut creme pies to my dear editor, pruplup4! A marching band parade for all my followers, including my newest: SherlockChlo, Poppy-Robins089, Ada Yuki, Abhayasalome, squibalicious, heddyvalle, The awesome beckster, Addicted2Fandoms, SomeoneBorrowedMe, and Watson'sGirl! Next, stop-sign immunity to all my reviewers, especially those who commented on last chapter: pruplup4, Catherine Pugh, KTrevo, Irene90, Anatomydoc, short-skirtbluescarf, Rocking the Redhead, kArA123, BlackPetals23, Renaissancebooklover108, and Helene Gaspard! Finally, thanks in abundance to everyone who's checked out Five Doctors, bringing it to an amazing 8,200 views *what what what what i can't even***

**Finally, I realize that I'm posting this on a very serious day, and before you read, I hope that you take a moment to remember the people who lost their lives on September 11, 12 years ago today.**

**Now: please enjoy!**

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Chapter Seventeen: You Can See Me

_She became absorbed in the idea of her headlights on the darkened street, searching the darkness for unknown terrors. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles popped and strained against her skin. Molly wasn't scared, not really. She hadn't anything to fear just yet, and still her heart raced and her breath came in soundless, ragged gasps that tore at her throat._

_Her eyes flicked to her rearview when he started talking, rambling about nothing in his drugged stupor. She tried to hush him because she could hear his voice wearing thin but still he wouldn't cease. "My Molly. My pathologist. At least I'm still real to her," he murmured. She swallowed and forced herself to stop glancing at the mirror. She said his name until he quieted a little and tried to soothe him._

_"Sherlock, sweetheart, you're rambling and your voice is going to give out. Please, try to rest. We'll be home soon."_

_"Home soon?"_

_And then he fell asleep as Molly tried not to remember how his name sounded in conjunction with the term of endearment that had slipped inadvertently from her lips._

_Tears began to slip down her face and she swiped them away with one shaking hand. She thought she was being so very silly, but suddenly the enormity of her deeds and of the entire situation came crashing down around her ears. Sherlock Holmes was dead to everyone except her._

_Molly tried uselessly to reign in her overdeveloped sense of empathy that was dragging her into the places of John and Mrs. Hudson, of Greg Lestrade, and even, she supposed, Mycroft Holmes, his brother and archenemy. And she was crying, crying, and suddenly it was as if he was really dead._

_She began to think about crying, about why one cried when someone died. Surely the reasons were manifold, and she tried to distract herself by exploring them. When strangers die, you rarely feel the urge to weep, unless of course, you're Molly Hooper. But most people don't. Certainly, they feel sadness, but nothing real, nothing extreme, because the deaths of those strangers didn't honestly touch their lives. People cry a little, whenever an acquaintance dies, because they're sad for his or her family, or because he or she died tragically young and it was such an injustice._

_'But when someone you love dies, someone for whom you care so painfully, inextricably deeply, you don't really cry for them. You cry because a part of you has just been irrevocably removed and there is nothing you can do but weep at the futility of everything. You cry for yourself.'_

_With this thought, Molly looked in the rearview again. She watched him sleep, his chest rising and falling nearly imperciptibly. But for that small, vital movement, he would have appeared dead to a medically-unskilled eye._

_He lived, yet still she cried, because almost all of a sudden, she was introduced to a remarkable facsimile of the kind of loss she hadn't experienced since her father died. Because, almost all of a sudden, she had realized how much she really, truly cared for the man lying asleep in her backseat, and because, almost all of a sudden, how much of her would really, truly have died with him._

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Molly alternated between staring into the flickering fireplace and staring into the nearly-empty-once-again wineglass in her hand. She glanced balefully at her ridiculous shoes and sparkling headband, abandoned at the foot of his chair. They'd looked so lovely on the shelf in the store when she bought them, along with her new dress, and now they just looked dull. Uninteresting.

_Sherlock is bloody terrible at Christmases_, she thought idly as she refilled her glass and tugged the last clip from her hair.

Another awful Christmas party had come and gone, and after their friends had left, they had a row over something Molly could no longer be bothered to remember. Shortly after he claimed he needed to do some legwork for a case, and stormed out of 221B with only a single backward glance to icily tell her not to wait up.

And yet, there she was, waiting up, trying to decide why that particular memory should surface. She supposed that she had been wondering what had brought her to this point in her life in which she sat in an apartment she shared with her significant other, drinking alone on Christmas Eve. Another look in the rear view at his sleeping form told her. _That was the night you realized it would be him or no one at all._

She took one long, shuddering breath and set her glass down, curled her legs into the chair, and fell asleep while trying desperately to stop thinking.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

_It was unceasing. Over, and over, and over, and over again, she bandaged his wounds and wiped crimson stains from his alabaster skin. Hushed his fevered ramblings and smoothed his fevered brow and held his fevered hand as a night terror gripped him._

_Finally the cycle diminished into only her hand, pushing his damp curls from his forehead and his voice, weakened and broken, begging her not to hate him._

_And then there was nothing, save his voice, raggedly whispering her name as if it was the only word he had not forgotten in the haze of drugs that clouded his brilliant mind._

_"Molly. Molly. Molly."_

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

She was awakened by the loud slamming of the front door against the wall.

"I told you not to wait up," his voice issued from the entryway, softer and kinder than it had been hours ago.

"I took it as a suggestion, which I promptly elected not to heed," she answered, still in her chair and not looking at him. But then he was silent for so long that she lifted her eyes to him. He leaned in the door way, his right hand wrapped around his left shoulder. His eyes instantly matched her gaze, pensive yet unreadable. In seconds, she was out of her chair and pulling his hand away from his shoulder.

"What have you done to yourself this time?" Molly asked gently as she eased his arm out of his coat and noted the blot of scarlet that marred his dress shirt.

As he allowed her to remove his shirt and fuss and worry, he answered that "it wasn't to be worried about and she should go to bed." And she ignored him until his shoulder was bandaged and she was scrubbing the blood from his shirt in the kitchen sink.

"Molly, stop. Forget the shirt and look at me."

Her hands stopped working at the garment, and his hand on her arm carefully turned her to face him. She refused to meet his eyes, but he was undeterred.

"Molly," he said again, quietly and without pretenses. His hand found her cheek, and she turned her face into his palm as tears prickled behind her eyes.

"It seems you are constantly mending my wounds."

"It seems I can't stop myself from mending your wounds, Sherlock. Besides, if not me, then who?"

Then, he was pulling her against him and she let slip a few tears against the chilled skin of his chest.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself. If not for your own sake, then for mine." Her voice trembled through the silence. "I will always be here to fix you up, but I can't bear to watch you destroy yourself for the sake of a thrill."

"Do you promise?" he murmured into her hair.

She nodded. "Of course I do. It's what you've always needed me for, right? To fix you up?"

"No, do you promise you'll always be here?"

She lifted her head, confused at the turn the conversation had taken, and found his eyes, oceanic and unfathomable as always.

"I will always be here. Always."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Later that night, when all was quiet again, and she laid beside him, her hand loosely twined in his, he allowed himself to wonder why he'd exacted such a promise from her. To wonder why it had been so vital that she stay. People had come and gone through his life without his notice, making absolutely no difference to him at all, yet she was still here. He would certainly notice if she left.

_She has become my unbecoming_, he mused, acknowledging once more that he was not the same for the sake of her.

And as the small hours of the night wore on, he decided that he was better for it.

And as the small hours of the night wore on, he decided that he truly needed her to be here always, always, and that she would just have to stay.

_She has become my unbecoming._

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

**Author's Note: *insert something witty and charming here* Let me know what you think?**

**Much Love and Thanks,  
-The Queen of Fragile Hearts**


	18. Ch 18: These Things Will Never Change

Five Doctors and the Detective  
**Disclaimer: Only the story name, chapter titles and a few OCs belong to me. I do not own any part of the BBC's Sherlock, much as I wish I did :) Neither do I own Snow Patrol's gorgeous song, "Chasing Cars". That song was my very first love, in terms of music, and I hope that if you haven't heard it, you'll look it up and give it a listen.**

**Notes: Anything in Italics is a character's specific, word-for-word thought, or in certain cases, a dream or a memory.**

**Shout-outs: Many thanks and kittens to my followers, both to my oldest and to my newest: Justmandy0811, .5, hrtofswrd, Brittyboo88, Sienna Maiu, kikicappie, KEncarnacion, anopinionatedwoman, melystar12, and L'ange de Vie! An apple pie and a cable-knit jumper to my beloved reviewers, especially those who commented on the last chapter: vicarwithableedingface, Anatomydoc, pruplup4, Irene90, SammyKatz, MusicalPK, Midnight Hikari, KTrevo, Rocking the Redhead, kArA123, short-skirtbluescarf, and Renaissancebooklover108! And as always, I'm just tickled pink by the response to this fic, and am so unbelievebly proud that all of you lovely folks have brought this story to an awesome 9700 views! *SQUEEEEE***

**Now: please enjoy!**

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Chapter Eighteen: These Things Will Never Change

_It was the loveliest spring day that London had seen in years. She was strolling arm and arm with her father through a kitschy little part of town, and the air was fresh and crisp, the sort of day that made one feel so explosively alive. He was happy, swinging his cane up to point at this or that, telling her stories and laughing._

_You could hardly tell he was ill. There was color in his cheeks and a twinkle in his bright blue eyes, and he hadn't ceased smiling._

_He insisted they go into this little Japanese gallery. Every inch of the store was covered with ink paintings and pottery and metalworks and painstakingly-tended miniature bonsai trees and ceramic tea sets. Daddy stopped at every shelf and marveled over every piece of craftsmanship, reading every single informational plaque to her._

_Finally, they came to the very back of the store, where there was a display of pottery filled with gold sealant. He stopped speaking almost instantly, and picked up each piece carefully, lovingly._

_"Daddy, what is this stuff?" she said, watching him handle the bowls with a quiet reverence._

_"It's kintsukuroi, my dear. My mother, your grandmother, had a few pieces. She always wanted to go to Japan and witness a craftsman at this lovely trade, but she never did. When I was a young man, I went for her and I watched and learned and understood, and I came home and told her all about it. It's the art of repairing broken pottery with gold. But more importantly, it is the understanding that the pottery is more beautiful for having been broken."_

_She smiled at him and kissed his cheek, then took a couple of pieces to the counter to purchase them. Just as the storekeeper finished wrapping the pottery, there was a great crash and clatter behind her. There he was, slumped on the shelf, surrounded by shards of sparkling pottery and struggling for breath._

_"Call your mother, Ellie," he rasped. That was his last good day._

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

The evening air was chilled as they danced in the very garden in which they spent their first night together, and the stars glimmered faintly in the heavens. "What's going on in that fantastic mind of yours, my dear?" he leaned down to whisper in her ear. She swayed against him, wrapping her arms more tightly around his shoulders, and humming softly.

"Kintsukuroi," she husked.

"What?"

"Kintsukuroi."

"Mmmmkay, still not following, darling, care to expound?"

"Some things are made better for their inclusions."

Michael laughed quietly and kissed her forehead. "Two years and I've still not discovered the depth of your soul."

"Two years. Has it really only been two years?"

"Two years since the night you held out your hand and pulled me into this garden."

A few silent minutes passed, where there were only the starlights above, and the hushed whispering of the wind, and the places where her body met his, and the steady pound of his heart beneath her ear.

"Marry me."

"Okay."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Molly sat in the waiting room, drumming her feet on the polished linoleum. She couldn't bear all this terrible waiting, but oddly enough, the world's most impatient and only consulting detective stood calmly by the window, hands folded behind his back as he stared silently through the glass. _How maddening_, she thought, looking around at the chairs filled with the friends, colleagues, and family of two of her dearest friends. _How terribly maddening._ Unconsciously, her fingers fussed with a delicate gold chain around her neck.

Eloise turned the page in her book, and without looking up, used her other hand to put Molly's back in her lap. "Stop messing with it. Remember how it's supposed to be a secret, yeah?"

Molly turned to her and blinked. "What secret?" she replied feebly.

The Egyptologist raised one very disbelieving eyebrow. "D'you really think I wouldn't notice, Molls? Now quit your fussing."

She blushed, stomping her feet again and pointedly looking away from her friend. Molly was about to go back to anxiously stomping her feet when she turned and accused, "No, he must have told you!"

Eloise smirked at her book, not looking at Molly. "I helped him pick out the ring, sweetheart," she whispered conspiratorially.

Molly's mouth fell open, and she was about to start asking questions when the waiting room doors flew open. John Watson appeared, looked haggard and unbelievably joyful. Tears streamed down his face. "I'm a dad!" he shouted through his laughter, "I'm a dad!"

A waiting room had never been so bright before.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Long after all of the well-wishers had disappeared, Molly sat in the chair by the window of Mary's room, cradling the child close to her chest. John was asleep in a chair by Mary's bed, his hand entwined with that of his also-sleeping wife.

_This is peace_, she thought as she smiled at the baby in her arms. "Hello," she cooed quietly, "Hi, you. I do hope we'll be the best of friends one day. I'm your god-mother, after all. Oh, you're going to have a wonderful, wonderful life, little bit. You'll be so very loved."

The little girl looked up at her, eyes new and unguarded. She was a silent child, but she smiled often. Her small hands plucked at Molly's shirt. "You're going to be just fantastic!"

"I don't doubt she will be," said the voice from the doorframe that startled her out of her reverie. He was the only one of them that didn't look utterly exhausted, and she was very envious in that moment.

"Why don't you look as much a wreck as the rest of us?" she accused.  
The corner of his mouth turned up. "What, Doctor Hooper, you expected some outward manifestation of fatigue or worry? Hardly consistent with what you know of me."

"Yeah. Doesn't mean I can't be irritated about it," she muttered to the baby, looking for some sympathy. "And you, sir, are in trouble. Why didn't you tell me that Eloise knew? She could have come with us to the municipal hall, been one of the witnesses!"

His eyes glowed in the dimmed evening light. "I am a selfish man. Perhaps I just wanted you all to myself awhile."

"Bull. Isn't that right, puddle duck? Your god-father just tried to hand me a bunch of bull. Can you believe him? Preposterous man," she said, playing with the child's fingers. Sherlock finally entered the room and occupied the chair next to hers. He leaned forward, staring intently at the tiny bundle with his brow furrowed.

"Children are terrifying creatures, are they not?" he said after awhile.

"Oh, they're not so bad, once you declaw and defang them."

He cast a withering look in her direction and she laughed softly, so as not to disturb the new parents or startle the baby.

"What are they going to call her?" he asked, extending one slender finger to the child. Her tiny hand wrapped around the tip, and she smiled widely at him. Molly could barely contain her giggling when he swallowed nervously.

"Helena Grace, destroyer of worlds and intimidator of grown men."

"You know, you used to be nicer." His lips were just centimeters from her ear when he added, "Or could I have possibly remembered incorrectly... Mrs. Holmes?"

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Here we are again, dear boys. It's been ten years now since I've been visiting you here, Derek, and seven since you moved in, Gregory. You've never left me, never. There were days when I thought you were haunting me, days when I couldn't escape either of you, and days when I missed you both so terribly I couldn't breathe. I hope the pair of you knew how much I loved you, and I hope you know that I still love you. Gregory, you were my first friend, and Derek, you were my first love. I hope you're happy, wherever you two are. I hope there's lots of trouble to cause. I hope there aren't any wars to fight. I hope there's love, more than you know what to do with. And I hope you're happy, I really, really do."

She knelt in her usual place between their crosses, and leaned against Derek's. Her fingers ghosted over the smooth marble surface. "I've brought someone to meet you," she said. "Three years ago I met him at a wedding, ironically enough. One year ago he asked me to marry him, and d'you know what? I did. And I'll bet you ne'er-do-wells had something to do with it. His name is Michael."

Eloise held out her hand, smiling at him as the wind tossed her hair over her shoulder. He took it and joined her on the grass. "Hello, Derek, and hello, Gregory. It's very nice to meet you."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Somewhere, there is a place where mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, sons and daughters, husbands and wives, and very best friends are happy. There is a place where they do not hurt or die, and no one is ill. No one goes off to war and no one loses a battle with cancer and no one has to jump off of a building and no one has to live without someone. Somewhere, there is peace. And whether or not that place exists in this world or in another or nowhere at all, to live without the idea of that place is to forget to live in this place. We hold the idea of that place tightly against us, close and dear like a warm blanket, handmade by someone long-dead, but still so very, very beloved.

_And all the while, the sun shone brightly, the birds sang, children played in the street. There wasn't a cloud in the sky._

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

_If I lay here, if I just lay here, would lie with me and just forget the world?  
I don't know where, confused about how as well.  
Just know that these things will never change for us at all.  
All that I am, all that I ever was, is here in your perfect eyes,  
They're all I can see._

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

**Author's Note: Here we are again, old friends: you and me on the last page. I hope you've enjoyed this story and I hope you'll continue to give my other work a look-see, but the time has come for Five Doctors to draw to a close. If you have any questions, comments, or concerns, go ahead and review or PM. I can't tell you how grateful I am for all of you lovely folks who've followed me here, until the very end. Thanks eternally, and I love you all.**

**Much Love and Thanks,  
-The Queen of Fragile Hearts**


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